LongBench v2 / 66f167c3821e116aacb274f4 / Both ‘Sport and Secessionism’ and ‘Discrimination, Sport, and Nation Building…

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Contents
Notes on contributors
Introduction
MARIANN VACZI AND ALAN BAIRNER
Sport and the unfinished Irish Revolution
ALAN BAIRNER
Sport and secessionism in Scotland
STUART WHIGHAM
Speaking for Wales: sport and secessionism in a small nation
JOHN HARRIS
A game of lions and devils: sport as a driver and inhibitor of
Flemish secession
ARNOUT GEERAERT, EDITH DRIESKENS AND BART
MADDENS
The tug of war of nationalisms: agonic sports for Basque–Spanish
relations
MARIANN VACZI


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Visions of building, specters of collapse: alternative routes to
secessionism in Catalonia
MARIANN VACZI
Football in Corsica: from the pride of being French to the desire
not to be?
DIDIER REY
Living through defeat: Hungarian–Romanian relations through
Szekler hockey
MARIANN VACZI
Two styles of engagement: Kurds and football in Turkey
ÖMER TURAN
Narratives of nationalist politics and sport in Sindh
SAHAR GUL AND ALAN BAIRNER
Assembling the diasporic nation: Kabylia at the CONIFA World
Football Cup
JONATHAN HARRIS
Sport and secessionism in Biafra
JOHNNY PRECIOUS OGBAH
“One China with respective interpretations” no more? The
struggle between China/PRC and Taiwan/ROC in sport
YING CHIANG AND TZU-HSUAN CHEN
The Montreal hockey nation: ethnic and/or civic attachments?
JACK JEDWAB
Index


Contributors
Alan Bairner is Professor of Sport and Social Theory at Loughborough
University, UK and co-editor of the Routledge Handbook of Sport and
Politics (Routledge, 2016).
Tzu-hsuan Chen is Professor in the Graduate Institute of Physical
Education at National Taiwan Sport University, Taiwan.
Ying Chiang is Associate Professor in the Department of Leisure and
Recreation Management at Chihlee University of Technology, Taiwan.
Edith Drieskens is Associate Professor at KU Leuven, Leuven
International and European Studies, Belgium.
Arnout Geeraert is Assistant Professor at Utrecht University, Utrecht
School of Governance, the Netherlands, and research fellow at KU
Leuven, Leuven International and European Studies, Belgium.
Sahar Gul is a freelance researcher, development consultant and a novelist;
was formerly Director of the Benazir Bhutto Chair, University of
Karachi, Sindh, Pakistan.
John Harris is Associate Dean Research in the Glasgow School for
Business and Society at Glasgow Caledonian University, Scotland.


Jonathan Harris recently defended his thesis entitled ‘Tamazgha in
France; Citizenship and Indigeneity in the diasporic Amazigh movement’
(2018) at the University of Cambridge, and is currently a research fellow
at Stranmillis University College, Belfast.
Jack Jedwab is President of the Association for Canadian Studies and is
the publisher of Canadian Issues and Canadian Diversity.
Bart Maddens is Professor at KU Leuven, Public Governance Institute,
Belgium.
Johnny Precious Ogbah is a doctoral researcher in the School of Sports
Exercise and Health Sciences at Loughborough University, UK.
Didier Rey is Professor of Universities in Contemporary History at the
University of Corsica, France, and a member of the UMR CNRS 6240.
Ömer Turan is an associate professor at İstanbul Bilgi University,
Department of International Relations, Turkey.
Mariann Vaczi is Assistant Professor of Anthropology and Basque Studies
at the University of Nevada, Reno, USA and author of Soccer, Culture
and Society in Spain: An Ethnography of Basque Fandom (Routledge,
2015).
Stuart Whigham is a senior lecturer in Sport, Coaching and Physical
Education at Oxford Brookes University, UK.


Introduction
Mariann Vaczi and Alan Bairner
When Avery Brundage, who was then President of the United States
Olympics Committee and later became President of the International
Olympic Committee (IOC), stated in response to calls for a boycott of the
1936 Berlin Olympic Games, which subsequently became commonly
known as Hitler’s Olympics (Hart-Davis 1986, Hilton 2011, Rippon 2006),
that politics have no place in sport, he was guilty either of excessive
idealism or, worse still, hypocrisy. With Brundage’s admiration for Hitler
and his ideas having subsequently been revealed, it has become clear that it
was almost certainly the latter. Those who argue that sport and politics do
not mix are, in reality, often arguing that while their political beliefs do
have a place in sport, those of others do not (Bairner et al. 2016). Nowhere
is this more apparent in issues raised by the relationship between sport and
the politics of secessionism.
The existence of a close relationship between sport and nationalism is
widely accepted (Bairner 2001, Rowe et al. 1998, Hong 2013, Allison
2000). It manifests itself in the concept of national sports, in the enduring
popularity of international competitions, events and contests and in the
myriad ways in which politicians and politically motivated groups have
sought to harness sport to national causes. On the other hand, questions are
increasingly being asked not only about the future of the relationship
between nationalism and sports but also about the fate of the nation itself.
The argument is perfectly straightforward even though it is commonly
expressed in far from accessible language. Put simply, it is asserted that
economic, political, cultural and ideological trends, supported by a
pervasive and all-powerful global media industry, must inevitably destroy


the distinctiveness upon which nations, nationalism and national identities
depend for their very existence.
If the fate of the nation itself is questioned, the fate of new nation-states
is even more uncertain. Risk-taking and risk-aversion are a salient aspect of
secessionist politics. ‘You ask people about the secession [from the Spanish
state]’, Michael Keating argued about the current Catalan independence
fervour, ‘and no one seems to know. Elections? And then, what?’ (2014).
Shrouded in a mystique of risk, fanaticism and subversion, secessionist
politics has become somewhat of a spectre to be avoided rather than
tackled: the European Union has ‘artfully maintained confusion’ over the
fate of new states, the New York Times wrote, while recognizing that
Catalonia and Scotland were a ‘challenge’ not just to their countries but
also to ‘a certain idea of Europe’ (Zaretsky 2015). Secessionist movements
in highly devolved liberal democracies in the heart of Europe should
prompt important debates over what forms of sovereignty and solidarity are
congruent with ‘a certain idea of Europe’.
With specific reference to sport, it is sometimes claimed that the global
exchange of sporting bodies makes it increasingly difficult for the nation-
state to be represented by conventional corporeal symbols. As a
consequence of this and other far-reaching developments, it is believed by
some (see Maguire 1999, Bairner 2001) that we may be at the earliest
stages of the development of a transnational or global culture, of which
sport is a part. Yet, sport also provides considerable evidence of cultural
exchange that is undoubtedly at odds with the vision of a process of
homogenization 
that 
is 
often 
encapsulated 
in 
the 
concept 
of
Americanization. Furthermore, in any debate of this type, it is dangerously
misleading to equate the nation with the nation-state. Indeed, it can be
claimed that the forces associated with the idea of globalization have
actually created political and cultural space in which nations and
nationalities that have historically been submerged within nation-states have
been reawakened and infused with new vitality.
One need look no further than the United Kingdom in order to clarify the
distinction between nation and nation-state. ‘Britain’ is largely a nationless
entity except when it is conflated erroneously with England. Nowhere is
this demonstrated more publicly than in the world of international sport
(Holt 1990, Polley 1998). With a single Olympics squad, four ‘national’
soccer teams and three ‘national’ rugby teams together with Northern


Ireland’s part share in the Irish team, the UK’s sporting landscape is
testimony to the complex relationship between nations and nation-states.
Thus, when we refer to the prestige that nations can derive from sport, it is
important to think in terms not only of internationally recognized states
whose politicians seize upon sporting success for ideological and
propagandist reasons (Molnar and Whigham 2019) but also of submerged
nations for which sport has commonly been one of the most effective
vehicles for cultural resistance by both cultural and political nationalists.
For them, sport provides athletes and fans with opportunities to celebrate a
national identity that is different from and, in some cases, opposed to, their
ascribed nationality (Vaczi 2015). As we shall see in some of the chapters in
this collection, the two forms of engagement need not be mutually
exclusive. It is possible to support both British teams and Scottish ones or
to represent Wales and also the United Kingdom. It can be argued though
that national identity frequently takes priority in the minds of sports fans.
Nationality, however, is likely to be what matters to athletes since this alone
guarantees the right to compete on behalf of nation-states, which unlike
many nations, may be represented in international sport just as they are at
the United Nations itself. It is worth noting, of course, that nationality rules
have become increasingly flexible in sport in response to labour migration.
The desire, particularly on the part of fans, to express their national
identity in the realm of sport is clearly linked to nationalism in the broadest
sense or, at the very least, to patriotism. Former Member of Parliament Jim
Sillars dismissed the attitude of his fellow Scots towards national sporting
representatives as ‘ninety-minute patriotism’. For example, Irish support for
national representatives in global sporting activities such as track and field,
rugby union and soccer is in most cases patriotic and, by implication,
relatively politically shallow. The relationship between Gaelic games and
Irish nationalism is on the other hand much more profound. In general,
however, attempts to distinguish the passions aroused by international sport
from ‘real’ nationalism miss the point. It is undeniable that expressions of
solidarity for players and teams that represent one’s nation are closely
linked to cultural nationalism. Whether or not they are also bound up with
political nationalism is a different question, the answer to which necessarily
varies from one individual to the next. For many people, even ones whose
national identity is bound up with a submerged nation, cultural nationalism
is enough. They may well feel that they could not become any more


Scottish or Welsh or Catalan than they already are with the formation of a
nation-state that would correspond to their sense of national identity. For
others though, cultural nationalism is nothing more than the emotional
embellishment of a strongly held political ideology that will settle for
nothing less than national sovereignty.
For most sportsmen and women, even in an era when money is a major
incentive for sporting success, representing the nation remains important. It
is not inconceivable that they might represent more than one nation with
neither ethnic origin nor even well-established civic connections being
necessary for a move from one to another. However, for most athletes
engaged in international sport, the matter is still relatively clear-cut. For
fans, things are arguably even simpler. In the modern era, following one’s
‘proxy warriors’ into international competition is one of the easiest and
most passionate ways of underlining one’s sense of national identity, one’s
nationality or both. Needless to say, not everyone wishes to celebrate their
national affiliation in this way, in most instances for the simple reason that
they are not interested in sport, the nation or the relationship between the
two. But just as for most active participants, for the majority of sports fans
the choice is relatively straightforward. This is not to deny of course that in
certain circumstances athletes and fans alike may well understand their
nations in different ways.
We use the words ‘movement’ and ‘secessionism’ in a loose sense.
Strictly speaking, because of the layered complexity and internal divisions
of these contexts addressed in this collection, it is hard to identify unified
and sustained ‘movements’ that have always been clear about their goal of
secession. We use these terms broadly to include contexts ranging from
loosely organized, unreflected and situational aspirations for anything from
regional autonomy to full national self-determination. Secessionism tends to
traverse a wide range of states until it matures into some kind of coherent
political will, if it ever does. What is a given in all contexts, however, is a
state, and a sub-national subject which seeks more than it has at present,
whether this be in the form of more rights, formal autonomy or
independence.
In secessionist contexts, the tools of satisfactory coexistence seem to
have been exhausted to the point that one of the parties pursues an exit. As
opposed to abstract, intangible and symbolic nation-building processes and
identity construction, secessionist subjects are clear about their adversary


(the state) and aim to affect radical change. While the interfaces of sport
and politics have been observed, secessionist contexts are unique in a sense
that they consist of two simultaneous processes of sub-national identity
construction on the one hand, and the deconstruction of state sovereignty on
the other. Without restraining factors, the end of their dialectic antagonism
will be schism. These centrifugal and centripetal forces create idiosyncratic
power relations, risks and opportunities. Sports are uniquely positioned to
shed light on these processes due to the paradigmatically binary, agonic
logic of contest on which state–region antagonisms may be projected.
In the following sections, we outline some general conclusions that we
can draw from the interfaces of sport and secessionism based on the regions
featured in this volume.
Secessionist contexts are complex and volatile
Secessionism arises as a contested terrain in the process of constant flux. It
creates complex allegiances, and sometimes paradoxical, ironic and even
absurd situations. Multiple identities, generational changes, historical ebb
and flows, and extra-secessionist political considerations make it rare for a
secessionist movement to be unified. The ‘fuzzy frontiers’ of Wales, the
‘confused, ambiguous but real’ national sentiment of Corsica, the ‘unstable
signifier’ that is the Republic of China/Taiwan, ironies and projections
make secessionist identities extremely complex.
This complexity comes from the multiplicity of identities that is proper
to secessionist contexts: volatile, double, situational, splintering and shifting
identifications. Secessionist movements are notorious for their splits and
factions. Internal disagreements often concern the degree of autonomy
between independence and federal frameworks; the path towards and means
of achieving those objectives; and the territorial boundaries of the proposed
new state. In Taiwan, over the twentieth century, people had to learn how to
be Chinese, then Japanese, and then Chinese again, and finally how to be
Taiwanese. In the case of Kabyle in Algeria, emergent secessionist
sentiments were predicated on a shift from Amazigh cultural identity to a
Kabyle national identity. Similarly, in Canada, a shift from French Canadian
identity based on ancestry, religion and language led towards a new
Quebecois identity based on territory and language. Fifty years ago in
Corsica, islanders were eager to be French and indignant when their


Frenchness was called into question; they were the colonized who first
wished to assimilate and it was the colonizer who refused it. Today, strong
ethnic assertions of a ‘Corsican race’ and national consciousness nourish
the secessionist movement. In Spain, bilingual and double identities such as
Basque/Spanish and Catalan/Spanish form a significant percentage across
the respective populations.
As state and region grow apart in a schismogenic process (Bateson 1972)
of progressive differentiation, whose end point may be schism, they traverse
a range of roles and identities. The ambiguities of secessionist contexts, as
we argued elsewhere (Vaczi et al. 2019), may be likened to those of a
process of ritual transformation. As regions shift from old roles and
identities toward new ones, they retain and display elements of both,
activating and de-activating them as situations require, resulting in their
mixture and a state of constant in-betweenness.
A symptom of this complexity is that many secessionist movements are
thwarted by intriguing inconsistencies and even paradoxes. In Belgium, for
example, Flemish separatist parties are increasingly popular, while Flemish
separatism itself is significantly less so, and only a small percentage of
voters are actually separatist. The ‘Flemish paradox’ refers to the popularity
of state symbols such as Belgian national sports teams, particularly the Red
Devils soccer team, among Flemish secessionists. The Irish movement
tends toward the same paradox: electoral support for Sinn Féin in Northern
Ireland does not necessarily translate into support for the unification of the
two Irelands. Catholics may vote for nationalist and republican parties, but
they may not want to unite Ireland and leave the United Kingdom.
Inversely, separatism is supported by 50 per cent of the Kurdish population
in Turkey, while the Kurdish movement does not acknowledge secession as
an objective. At the same time, similarly to the Belgian case, Kurdish
soccer fans in Turkey envision their sport in a Turkish context, and support
teams such as the Istanbul-based Galatasaray. The Canadian–Quebecois
context displays inconsistencies between image and reality: when the
hockey club Montreal Canadiens was cited as a model for the Quebecois
sovereignty movement in the 1970s, the irony was quickly noted that the
club was Anglo-owned, only three players were French and the club
operated in English.
Sometimes state–region relations are so complex that the international
community, including the sport world, fails to grasp them or keep up with


their volatile trajectories. Such cases include the decades-long tussle
between the Republic of China/Taiwan and the People’s Republic of China
over the legitimate representation of China. Taiwan was only 1/267 part of
the total area it aimed to represent, which made the situation even more
confusing. Over fifty years of Olympic history, the island was variously
called ROC/Taiwan, China (Formosa) and Chinese Taipei, while China’s
names were the People’s Republic of China and Peking China. Name
changes were a constant source of confusion and uncertainty for athletes,
broadcasters and even the highest circles of the IOC about whom, exactly,
these names meant. A similar confusion thwarted Corsica. Its ‘in-between’
position as not quite part of France and not quite part of the French empire,
its lack of status and representation was reflected in its inconsistent
positioning on geographical maps. Corsica was an island in a rectangle in a
corner, near the Var coast, off Marseille, or even in the Bay of Biscay. The
‘Hexagon’ was a hexagon without Corsica.
The fuzziness of loyalties and identities should prompt an important
discussion: below and beyond constitutional legitimacy, at what critical
mass is secessionism socially legitimate enough to pursue a radical rupture?
What approval rates provide the mandate to assume the risks of rupture?
Movements that are constitutionally blocked from independence referenda
often argue that the democratic and fair solution would be voting about the
issue. But even so, do 50 per cent plus one majority referenda do justice, or
just rearrange discontent? In 2015, the newly elected, first pro-
independence Catalan regional government sensed this problematic. The
Junts pel Sí ‘Together for Yes’ coalition campaigned with the unilateral
declaration of independence, and won government. Later, however, they
backtracked as an approximately 50 per cent popular support was not
considered enough for a unilateral declaration of independence, and they
concluded that larger social support was necessary for such a radical move
as a breakaway.
Secessionism often emerges in the vacuum of greater
geo-political dislocations
Secessionist aspirations often emerge or intensify as a result of greater geo-
political dislocations. Amalgamation, partition, transition, revolution,
handover and de-colonization are different names for the same logic, the


same event: a crack in old systems which gets filled with new visions. In
1914, the British colonial amalgamation of Nigeria was a forced marriage
of three regions with distinctive languages, religions and subsistence
traditions, which eventually led to the Nigerian Civil War or Biafran War in
1967. The 1921 Partition of Ireland intended to create two self-governing
regions. In the north-east, six counties were to be governed by a devolved
administration albeit within the United Kingdom, while twenty-six counties
formed an independent Irish state. The legacy of Partition, however, has
been to ensure that there are those throughout Ireland but particularly in
Northern Ireland who continue to demand secession resulting in the
unification of the entire island. The 1975 death of Franco and the
subsequent democratic Transition in Spain quickly resulted in the España
de las Autonomías, which granted seventeen regions a high degree of
autonomy in government, education, policing, media and sometimes taxes.
In the liberating Transition atmosphere, regions such as the Basque and
Catalan felt freer to reclaim their formerly oppressed identities. The 1989
fall of the Iron Curtain in Eastern Europe, and particularly the Romanian
Revolution had a similar effect, and minorities such as the Szekler
Hungarians stepped up immediately to claim language rights.
Colonialism and post-colonialism may serve as a real context, or a
narrative device to explain sub-national experience. Taiwan’s confrontations
with China intensified in the wake of the island’s de-colonization after fifty
years of Japanese rule (1895–1945). Kabyle’s secessionist turn was possible
after the de-colonization of French territories, including Algeria.
Secessionist tendencies in Sindh were triggered after the de-colonization of
South Asia, the creation of two successor states – India and Pakistan
(including Sindh) – and the secession of East Pakistan in 1971. Both the
imaginary and the vocabulary of colonialism are frequently used in sub-
national contexts to express the essence of their experience, particularly in
states that do have long colonial histories: Corsicans in France, Basques and
Catalans in Spain, even the Welsh and Scottish in the United Kingdom
speak of their ‘internal colonization’ to give more weight to their
arguments. Geo-political dislocations might even be predictive of the
upsurge of secessionist sentiments, as in the case of Scotland, which will
quite possibly pursue another independence referendum in the wake of
Brexit, which was opposed by a substantial majority of Scots.


Secessionism is often fuelled by legal, economic and
ideological considerations
Ethnonationalism still resonates with some secessionist movements;
however, in cases where minorities are granted language rights and have no
immediate anxieties over cultural loss, we may see legal, political,
economic and ideological triggers behind secessionism. In fact, some sub-
national contexts consider that they did not just grow apart from their states
but grew beyond them. Distrust in state operations, as well as ideological
divergences often nourish fantasies about a new state that will operate more
democratically, with greater economic efficiency, more progressively, or
with greater legal safeguards. In Scotland, secessionists pointed out their
‘democratic deficit’: that is, the past disenfranchisement of Scottish Labour
majority support by Conservative governments in Westminster. Catalonia’s
main triggers were economic and ideological. The current secessionist
fervour started with Madrid’s rejection of Catalonia’s new fiscal agreement
in 2006 and 2010. As with the Scottish ‘democratic deficit’, leftist Catalan
independentists often cited their irreconcilable ideological differences with
conservative Popular Party governance in Spain. Finally, the latest street
fights erupted as a result of distrust in the Spanish legal system after the
Supreme Court’s sentencing of elected pro-independence politicians to 8–
13 years in prison. In Corsica, below and beyond the more recent
racialization of Corsican consciousness, the first discourses about ‘internal
colonization’ emerged in the aftermath of the 1950s French development
policy called Regional Action Plan, which was seen as a pretext for
dispossessing islanders. In the Flemish case, economic issues, progress,
jobs and wages dominate autonomy arguments.
Symbolic gestures, grievances and fears of culture loss
remain important triggers
In spite of emergent forms of civic nationalism described above, symbolic
gestures and particularly grievances can considerably fuel the emotional
substance of secessionist movements. As mentioned above, in 2010 the
Spanish Constitutional Court rejected for the second time the proposal of
the Catalan government for a new economic agreement between state and
region. What ignited the first massive pro-independence demonstration,


however, was not the rejection of the fiscal pact itself, but a peripheral
clause in the decision: Catalonia was not allowed to refer to itself as a
‘nation’, only as a ‘nationality’. According to the Spanish constitution, the
word ‘nation’ is reserved for Spain. The denial of their nationhood drove a
million Catalans onto the streets under the banner ‘We are a nation, we
decide’, which was the first of a series of massive pro-independence
demonstrations in the years to come. Names make or annihilate identity,
and naming controversies are part of a web of grievances: Taiwan’s
desperate struggle for its name (Republic of China/Taiwan) at the Olympic
Games was progressively undermined by its powerful big Other, the
People’s Republic of China (PRC).
The failure to recognize linguistic and cultural difference by the state,
disrespect and arrogance provoke emotional responses from which
secessionist movements draw substantial energies. For example, the
Flemish movement emerged in no small way as a reaction to French
becoming the official language of the newly created state of Belgium in a
territory where the majority spoke Dutch. Similarly, in the Sindh region of
Pakistan, the Muslim elites from West Pakistan tried to implement Urdu as
the national language in spite of the fact that it was the language of only 2
per cent of the population of the new country. But even where regional
languages are solid and co-official, such as in Catalonia, anxieties about
language loss are a frequent theme in secessionist narratives. While Wales
is undeniably a culturally and linguistically distinct country, it often
encounters humiliation and patronizing indifference: ‘For Wales – see
England’, as the early editions of Encyclopaedia Britannica have it. The
term ‘England and Wales’ is symptomatic of a disregard that sees Wales as
a mere extension of England.
Existential anxieties such as a sense of loss often trigger defiant
responses toward what is seen as a domineering state. The Basque
secessionist organization ETA (Basque Land and Freedom) first emerged to
counter cultural and linguistic loss under the Franco regime. Similarly, the
Kurdish movement responds to Turkish state repression, efforts of
assimilation and the oppression of Kurdish identity and language. For the
Szekler Hungarian minority in Romania, the shrinking magyar világ
‘Hungarian world’ of Transylvania has been a constant subject of
lamentation for a hundred years now, as formerly dominantly Hungarian-
speaking towns and cities were transformed by forced settlement and


Romanianization policies. As for Sindh, the population grew by 80 per cent
over the past thirty years as a result of immigration, and Sindhis now make
up only 45 per cent of the population, leading to feelings of insecurity and
decline. These sub-national contexts view themselves as self-defensive, as
reactive to state repression rather than catalysts of conflict. The constant
sense of embattlement for survival might be channelled into mythologizing
narratives, a genre championed probably by Scotland, which successfully
crafted a framework of an oppressed but courageous nation fighting an
overpowering enemy since the thirteenth century.
Sports serve as sites of sub-national struggle
Sport stadiums are sites of power between sub-national vindications and the
assertions of state power. Sometimes, sport is the main site of state–region
antagonisms. The story of sport in Ireland, particularly the Gaelic Athletic
Association (GAA), is the story of three Irelands: pre-Partition Ireland, Irish
Free State (Republic of Ireland) and Northern Ireland. In Pakistan, cricket
enjoys a pre-eminence that affects political transitions, social tensions,
economic transformations, diplomatic relations and cultural development,
which is why many in Sindh province are bitter about discrimination and
exclusion from this important terrain. The competition between Republic of
China/Taiwan and the PRC for the representation of China unfolded over
fifty years of the Olympic Games. The idea of Kabyle as a nation was most
forcedly proposed in the soccer stadiums of the CONIFA Cup, where
unofficial national teams of stateless players compete. Place has the power
to conjure up major historical grievances, as it happened with the British
government’s plans to build a 42,000-seat National Sport Stadium in
Northern Ireland on the site of the former Maze prison, where ten Irish
republican prisoners died on hunger strike in 1981.
One way to symbolically assert nationhood in sport is through the body:
local, homegrown players, who are a literal embodiment of the nation.
These approaches are premised on primordial notions of ethnic
brotherhood, which has been perfected by the Basque Athletic Club de
Bilbao and its brand through a Basque-only policy across a hundred years.
Similarly, the Szekler ice hockey team Csíkszereda Sportklub, the Quebec
Nordiques and the Montreal Canadiens in Quebec, the Catalan FC
Barcelona and the Kurdish Amedspor have found it important to rely, as


substantially as possible, on homegrown players for symbolic purposes.
These strategies are based on body–value linkages whereby physical fitness
is equated with national fitness, and athletic performance is the measure of
national success. The general sense of existential anxiety proper to sub-
national contexts has manifestations in the loss of local sporting talents to
state leagues and national teams, or to globalization, as it has been
expressed in these contexts.
Symbolic strategies for national re-territorialization include not only
ethnicized recruitment policies, but also sport events that traverse the
geographical area that is claimed. As sporting bodies are drafted from a
particular region, such as above, teams siding homegrown players are a
ritual confirmation of the territory of the nation. As for re-territorializing
display events, the Flemish cycling race Ronde de Vlaandeeren (Tour of
Flanders) is one of the best-known cases of the celebration of regionalism.
Similarly, the Basque Korrika is a bi-annual exhibition race that runs
through every single city, town and village of the Basque Country,
including the historical provinces in the French Basque area, to vindicate
the Basque language and mark the boundaries of the nation. Local player
pedigrees and boundary-marking display events serve as the physical stuff
of imagined communities.
A related nationalist strategy through embodiment is official national
representation through national teams, which is often considered the
greatest symbolic step toward proper statehood. National teams may be
divisive for state–region relations as they are in sub-national contexts in
Spain; alternatively, they may be the only thing that brings antagonistic
parties together, as happens with a sense of Belgianness. There is a great
permutation of examples and approaches when it comes to regional national
teams. First, they may be banned (Catalonia, Basque Country, Szeklerland,
Kabyle), in which case unofficial teams try to gain national visibility at
friendly matches, or events like the CONIFA Cup. Second, regional
national teams might be official, as they are in the United Kingdom, and
compete 
in 
international 
championships 
like 
any 
nation-state
representatives. Third, in some cases, there might be more than one national
team to play for: Szeklers cannot have a regional national team, but they
may choose to play for the state of Romania or Hungary, and the northern
Irish may play for the Republic of Ireland or for Northern Ireland. Fourth,
there might be a combination of the above, depending on sport, context and


aspirations: for example, Wales competes as Wales in soccer and rugby
union, but as part of Team Great Britain at the Olympic and Paralympic
Games. Meanwhile Welsh and Irish cricketers hope to play for England in
international cricket. Indeed, the current captain of England’s one-day
national team is Dublin-born and -educated Eoin Morgan.
Sport stadiums have been important spaces for sub-national language use
under dictatorial circumstances such as the Spanish Franco regime, or the
Romanian Ceaușescu regime. Even when regional languages were banned
or harassed in an effort to impose the state language, the terraces of sport
stadiums were often a liminal space where minority languages were
tolerated: Basque and Catalan could be spoken in Francoist Spain, and
Szeklers could sing in Hungarian in Ceaușescu’s Romania. The language of
sport management, club communication, stadium announcements and
cheering has highly symbolic significance in the Quebecois context as well,
where French competes with the dominant English. For the 1992 Barcelona
Olympic Games, a major objective of Catalan organizers was to achieve the
co-official status of the Catalan language during the Olympic Games.
Protesting, jeering or whistling state symbols and representatives is a
sub-national strategy that aims to deconstruct central sovereignty,
particularly where monarchical endorsements are present in the VIP boxes.
Protesting state symbols has elicited diverse reactions ranging from closing
down the stadium, threats of criminalizing whistling, banning regional
anthem singing, to important debates about the freedom of expression.
While centralists feel offended as such protests target sacred symbols of the
state, sub-national subjects claim freedom of expression. State anthems are
particularly subjected to sabotage: whistling the Spanish Marcha Real by
Basques and Catalans, the Turkish Independence March by Kurds, the
French Marseillaise by Corsicans, and the British God Save the Queen by
Scottish, Irish and Welsh sports fans have become rituals of rebellion that
are met with varying degrees of retorsion. In some cases, such as in Turkey
and Romania, regional players being silent or lip-syncing during the singing
of state anthems provokes suspicion of internal sabotage. Anthem
controversies are probably most twisted in the Szekler Hungarian case in
Romania: whenever the Romanian national hockey team plays the state of
Hungary, the Szekler-dominated Team Romania sings the anthem of
Hungary, sending international journalists into utter confusion as to why
they sing the anthem of the opponent.


Do symbolic struggles in sport go beyond ‘banal’?
A question we should not take for granted with regard to representations in
sporting arenas is the efficacy of symbols. Do they translate into real
support for secessionist politics? Or is the deployment of sport merely, as it
is asserted about Corsica, at the level of ‘agit prop’? When and how do
symbols go beyond banal?
Symbols are ‘floating signifiers’, as Lévi-Strauss argued (1950), and
may have vague, variable, unspecifiable or non-existent significance. The
contingency of symbols is well illustrated by the Kurdish Diyarbakırspor
football club: in spite of the fact that it was endorsed by the Turkish state
and did not actively cultivate a Kurdish identity, it was seen by association
related to the Kurdish movement as it was based in a Kurdish-dominated
city. Something similar happened to the Montreal Canadiens hockey club
when the purportedly Quebecois nationalist Quebec Nordiques emerged in
the 1970s. Fans projected anti-secessionist identity on the former, while
there was no real reason to do so except for the structuralist impulse to
transform a sporting rivalry into antagonism between secessionist and
centralist adversaries.
The French Basque and Spanish Basque regions are good examples of
the different weight afforded to the same symbol, the Basque national flag
the ikurrina. A few weeks after the death of Franco in December 1975, the
Spanish Basque derby between Real Sociedad and Athletic Club de Bilbao
produced one of the most iconic images of the Transition: team captains
Kortabarria and Iribar walked onto the field holding the Basque national
flag. While flag displays in sport stadiums are normally considered classic
examples of Billig’s ‘banal nationalism’ (1995) this was a conspicuous
event as the flag was still banned. Even today, the ikurrina is displayed
sparingly in the Spanish Basque Country, and has clear nationalist political
connotations. At the same time, the French Basque region is peppered with
ikurrinas, including in its sporting arenas. The flag there is folkloric,
‘banal’, politically barren as a symbol while in Spain, it evokes major
historical grievances.
The efficacy of symbolic representations through sport is hard to
measure, and some of our chapters question its real consequences for
politics. In Belgium, sporting nationalism is considered an ‘unstable
source’; in Corsica, sport did not become major for the movement, but


remained a ‘journalistic’, ‘unreflected’ tool that was good for little more
than ‘visibility’; the Kurds did not see sport as a systematic platform to
showcase national identity in the 1990s. As mentioned above, in Scotland,
the former leader of the Scottish National Party Jim Sillars once called
Scots ‘90-minute patriots’, because their nationalistic zeal in the stadium
did not quite cross over to their politics. The possibility of symbolic
exhaustion in stadiums was shown particularly clearly at the 2019 el
Clásico between FC Barcelona and Real Madrid. While unprecedented
policing went into securing the stadium and preventing banners and a pitch
invasion, the real action took place outside the stadium, where pro-
independence protesters clashed with riot police.
In some cases, sport is not only considered a terrain of questionable
symbolic efficacy, but might be rejected outright for the purpose of nation
building by secessionist movements. This happened with the armed
separatist groups ETA in the Basque Country, and the FLNC (National
Liberation Front of Corsica) in Corsica, as these movements considered
football as an ‘opium of the people’ and a colonial device. The Old Firm of
Glasgow, one of the most notorious football rivalries, actually prevents a
united Scottish national front: Rangers is still mainly associated with
Protestantism, orangeism, conservativism and unionism, while Celtic is
associated with Irishness, Catholicism and republicanism.
Sporting excellence and resources may offer real sub-
national agency
Sports systems may become real sources of agency for sub-national entities.
As state and region compete in a dialectic of progressive differentiation,
sport may shift power relations from complementarity to equality. In the
former case, sub-national entities are subordinated to state structures, and
complement them; in the latter, however, they come to be equivalent or
even dominant. This is an achievable state on the terrain of sport through
regional players, knowhow or resources. Successful strategies for carving
out sub-national power in otherwise dominant state structures include
dominating a sport that is important for the state or has global prestige;
dominating the state’s national team; dominating federations and resources;
and organizing high-profile sport events. Sub-national subjects have made
themselves indispensable through these strategies, and achieved the state’s


dependency on their expertise, resources and contributions, which in turn
grants them decision-making powers.
Catalonia has mastered a combination of these strategies. It is often said
that without Barcelona, the Catalan question would not exist today.
Barcelona is no second capital to Madrid; it is a symbolic equal. Its position
is in great part due to Catalan sporting successes. More particularly,
Catalans have been fundamental to the success of Spanish soccer and the
Spanish national team throughout history. Furthermore, the highly
successful and substantially Catalanized 1992 Barcelona Olympic Games
has secured lifelong bragging rights to Catalans, particularly since Madrid
lost its third bid to host the Games in 2013.
In Wales, we see a similar combination of gaining agency through
sporting excellence and event organization. From a secessionist perspective,
Wales is sometimes referred to as an ‘internal colony’, ‘dependent
periphery’ at worst, and ‘England and Wales’ at best, all indicating various
degrees of state dominance and regional peripherality; but in rugby union,
Wales is a global centre. It is a field in which Wales is a symbolic equal,
and even superior, to its neighbour. As with Barcelona, the city of Cardiff
has been instrumental in this superiority – to the point that, as Harris
proposes in this volume, they really should say ‘England and Cardiff’. The
Rugby World Cup (RWC) is arguably the third biggest sport event in the
world after the Olympic Games and the FIFA World Cup, and Cardiff has
been a host city in every RWC organized in the northern hemisphere.
The challenge for the periphery acting out central roles in a hegemonic
environment is that local, sub-national identity is actually visible. In Wales,
this simultaneous ‘absence and presence’ meant that Cardiff provided the
venue and the organization, but Welsh identity was not particularly salient.
In Catalonia, the organizers of the Barcelona games were very conscious of
this danger, and insisted, through a masterful manipulation of symbology
and folkloric elements, that the Games would be perceived as first
Barcelonese/Catalan, then international and finally Spanish (Hargreaves
2000).
The power of events to disseminate political messages also surfaced
around the 2014 Scottish independence referendum. Scotland has long
romanticized its position as the embattled and oppressed underdog against
its big Other, England; it might not be in an equal position, but it is
equivalent enough for a good fight, in which ‘glorious failures’ often


happen. The Scottish confidence in its sport life to rival that of the state was
manifest when the independence referendum was strategically scheduled
for 2014 by the Edinburgh Agreement. Both unionists and secessionists
agreed to the date: the former hoped that the 2012 London Games would
push support for ‘Better Together’, while Scottish secessionists trusted that
the 2014 Commonwealth Games hosted by Glasgow would reverse the
process and tip the balance in their favour. As in the case of the Catalan–
Spanish ‘paz olímpica’, a truce was struck between unionists and
independentists, only to be broken here too, as the power of both sport
events on politics was contested prior to the referendum.
Szekler Hungarians in Romania have carved out a position of power
through ice hockey by dominating resources, the Romanian national team
and sometimes the Romanian Federation. To ensure an equal footing as
partners with the centre, Szeklerland had to have superior players and
resources. Szeklerland owns eight hockey rinks, while the rest of Romania
owns a mere two, which obliges Bucharest and other Romanian teams to
ask to use Szekler rinks and participate in the Transylvania League. The
Szeklerland Hockey Academy’s state-of-the-art facilities, substantially
financed by the Hungarian state, are coveted by non-Szekler Romanian
clubs. Since the Romanian national team routinely consists of 90 per cent
Szekler players, speaking Hungarian is a right they actively cultivate – and
even flaunt – in the face of occasional disapproval from the Romanian
centre, which cannot but tolerate it, unless they are prepared to accept the
Szekler players’ refusal to play. And finally, Szekler officials earning
positions in the Romanian Hockey Federation ensures that Szekler interests
are not marginalized in central decision making.
National teams representing the state may become a unique site of power
for sub-national subjects. In some of our cases (Basque, Catalan, Szekler),
state national teams may rely heavily on regional players who are often
antagonistic to the idea of the state they represent. This often breeds an
atmosphere of blame and suspicion about whether sub-national players are
really committed to the state national team on the one hand; on the other, it
endows regional sport with power. During the early 1980s, including the
1982 FIFA World Cup and the 1984 European Championship, the Spanish
national team’s striker squad and goal keeping was dominated by Basque
players, while ETA was constantly threatening with the disruption of the
event. The underperformance of the Spanish national team and the peak


intensity of Basque political violence created an aura of suspicion in which
the dedication of Basque players could be doubted. Later, the glorious
2008–2012 Spanish national team was dominated by Catalan playing style
and players, while street protests reclaiming independence intensified
during the same time, at times with the support of key Catalan players.
Similarly, in Biafra, the region’s sporting dominance lies in the fact that its
athletes constitute 70 per cent of the Nigerian national teams. While the
North dominates the sport federations, has political power and more
facilities, the participation of northern athletes in national teams is very
limited. Southerners of Igbo descent constitute the majority of national team
athletes, thereby representing a state that had harassed and starved its region
during the Civil War.
Regional excellence in sport forces states into a position where they have
to accommodate or tolerate sub-national vindications if they want the best
line up to represent the state. But sometimes, the best possible state
performance is less important than ethnic purity and fraternal
considerations. In the Sindh region of Pakistan, Sindhi players have been
conspicuously absent in the Pakistan Super League squads and national
teams despite their sporting excellence. Ethnonationalism, nepotism and
corruption play favourites such as sons and nephews in Pakistani sport,
excluding Sindhi. The Sindhi player Javed Koso was marginalized with the
argument that he did not have a passport, a process that could have been
expedited easily. Passports come to haunt sub-national players in other
contexts as well. In communist Romania, Szekler Hungarian players argued
that when a Romanian and a Szekler player competed for the same position
in the national team, the Szekler one was dropped with the excuse that his
passport was not processed on time.
Lastly, local dominance of regional federations and municipal ownership
of clubs is also a source of empowerment. The Flemish community forced a
series of splits, also referred to as ‘split fever’, to separate Flemish sport
from federal and francophone sport, which was a considerable step towards
local agency. In the Kurdish case, municipal ownership by the Kurdish City
Hall in Diyarbakir ensured that its club, Amedspor, would better represent
regional identity compared with its Turkish state-endorsed rival club,
Diyarbakırspor.


An incomplete review
This collection includes fourteen chapters on a wide range of societies in
which there are clear links, to varying degrees, between sport and
secessionist politics and we are particularly proud to present several
geographical areas that are under-researched, and have only seldom been
studied from a sport perspective in particular. However, it is by no means
exhaustive in its coverage. For example, there is no consideration of nation-
states that emerged in the past as a result of secession, such as Bangladesh
and Slovakia. The focus in this collection is exclusively on places in which
secession remains an aspiration rather than a done deal. Nor is there any
discussion in the book of nation-states that emerged as a consequence of the
disintegration of much larger political entities such as the former Soviet
Union and the former Yugoslavia. Secessionism does not accurately capture
how these new states came into existence.
In addition, perhaps even more significantly, there are no chapters
devoted to three regions of the PRC where secessionist movements
undeniably exist. Attempts to include chapters on Tibet, Xinjiang and Hong
Kong were consistently frustrated. Scholars with an interest in sport in these
regions were ultimately unwilling or unable to write about the topic for
publication in a book, the title of which includes the word ‘secessionism’.
It is unfortunate that we have not been able to address these three regions
in separate chapters in the book not least because the PRC has an enviable
record of integrating fifty-five ethnic minorities with the dominant Han
population. This has been an ongoing process since Dr Sun Yat-sen, the
founder of modern China, abandoned the idea that only Han people were
truly Chinese and moved to a position that accepted that members of the
minorities should be accorded the same status. This was a process that was
continued after the formation of the PRC in 1949. Very few minorities have
shown any interest in secessionism as long as their traditional way of life is
protected, for example, by the Traditional Games of Ethnic Minorities
which take place every four years. Nevertheless, there are minorities, such
as the Tibetans and the Uygurs in Xinjiang who feel that their traditional
beliefs and customs are constantly under attack.
The secessionist case of Tibet is relatively well known to a global
audience with memories of acts of self-immolation by protesting Buddhist
monks and the high visibility of the Dalai Lama living in exile in India but


regularly representing his followers on the international stage. Like all
minorities in China, the Tibetans have their own traditional ludic activities.
These include yak racing which is actually also practised in other provinces
of China. In addition, the Tibetan national football team took part in the
2018 CONIFA World Cup with a team which included players living in
India. This is a good example, similar to that of Kabyle, of diaspora
populations helping to keep alive a sense of distinctive national identity on
the field of sport.
The Chinese government, however, is also keen to use sport for
integrative purposes rather than fuelling division and, at the 2012 Olympic
Games in London, Qieyang Shenjie became the first Tibetan to win an
Olympic medal, having finished second in the women’s 20K walk after the
initial second-placed athlete had been disqualified for doping. A triumph for
Tibet, a triumph for China or a victory for both? These are the same sort of
questions that are asked regularly in many of the places discussed in this
book.
The population of Xinjiang is nowadays almost equally divided between
mainly immigrant, Han people and Muslim Uygurs who once constituted
the overwhelming majority of what is officially the Xinjiang Uygur
Autonomous Region. From the mid-2000s, there has been repeated unrest
and ethnic tension in the region and, in recent years, Western media have
regularly published articles about what are described as concentration
camps housing Uygurs suspected by the authorities of being terrorists who
support secession and the establishment of an independent East Turkestan
state. The Chinese government has either denied the existence of these
camps or chosen to describe them simply as places of political education. In
2019, Mesut Özil, Arsenal and former Germany footballer, became one of
the highest profile critics of the PRC’s treatment of Uygurs. In the same
year, a promising young Uygur footballer, Erfan Hezim, was released from
one of the camps where he had been sent for leaving the country to visit
Spain and the United Arab Emirates, trips which he claimed had been solely
for football purposes. On his release, he immediately expressed his
gratitude to the Communist Party and the Chinese government. The most
famous Uygur footballer to date, however, is Mirahmetjan Muzepper who
in 2018 became the first Uygur to play for the Chinese national team.
In keeping with the policy of using sport for integrative purposes,
Xinjiang has a second-tier football team, Xinjian Tianshan Leopard FC, and


a highly successful basketball team, Xinjiang Flying Tigers, which won the
FIBA Asia Champions Cup in 2016 and were runners up in 2017. However,
while they bear the Xinjiang name and include Uygur players, the teams are
based in Ürümqi, the population of which is 75 per cent Han and only 12
per cent Uygur. If we compare this with another city in the region, Kashgar,
the population of which is around 80 per cent Uygur and only 18 per cent
Han, it is difficult to see how far the success of these teams can strengthen
demands for secession. Nevertheless, just as the Taiwanese have celebrated
the achievements of their baseball players who make it to the major leagues,
a moment of Uygur sporting pride did come in 2018 when a member of the
Flying Tigers team, Abudushalamu Abudurexiti, was selected to play for
the Golden State Warriors in the NBA Summer League.
The third PRC case study that we wanted to include was the Hong Kong
Special Administrative Region (SAR). In Hong Kong, identities have come
to centre on being Hongkonger, Chinese, Hongkonger/Chinese, or
cosmopolitan, as Hong Kong was transformed from being ‘a derelict
backwater to become the eighth largest trading economy in the world’
(Yahuda, 2018, p. 21). The 1997 British handover of Hong Kong to China
opened a new chapter in Hong Kong–China relations. Unlike Tibet and
Xinjiang, Hong Kong became a Special Administrative Region of China to
be governed according to a policy of ‘One country, Two systems’ which has
increasingly seemed to many in Hong Kong to be under threat with many
Hongkongers distrusting the Chinese legal system and Beijing’s approach to
civil rights. Concerns intensified in 2020 as a result of the Beijing
government’s introduction of the New Security Law which led to a return to
street protests, which had been a regular feature of Hong Kong life in 2019,
and considerable international criticism.
This does not mean that most Hongkongers support the idea of
independence. Many might well be satisfied by the ‘One country, Two
systems’ policy being upheld and PRC interference in Hong Kong’s internal
affairs ended. However, in one area at least, just like Scotland and Wales,
Hong Kong already exists as a separate country and that is in the world of
international sport which offers some insights into the reasons why the
Beijing government has acted as it has in recent years towards Hong Kong.
Around the world, the start of a new qualifying campaign for the next
FIFA World Cup is always a nerve-wracking (but also an exciting) time for
the players and fans of any country’s team. However, Hong Kong’s initial


World Cup qualifying home game against Iran, one of the strongest Asian
footballing nations, on 10 September 2019, came at a particularly unusual
moment in Hong Kong’s modern history. By that time, for over three
months, Hong Kong had been wracked by repeated controversy,
demonstrations, and violence, creating its biggest political crisis since the
1997 handover of sovereignty to the PRC. This did not stop, but rather
encouraged many Hong Kong football fans to don red shirts and attend the
match. This was not simply about demonstrating support for the Hong
Kong team; it was also about emphasising dislike of China at a time of
heightened tension.
Compared with other parts of the world that have suffered from fan
violence and other disruptions, Hong Kong has maintained a reputation as a
relatively trouble-free, if low-key, environment for sporting activities. On
this occasion too, all of the protests within the stadium were peaceful.
However, as the Chinese national anthem, the March of the Volunteers
(which is played on all public occasions, including international sporting
events, as the ‘national’ anthem of Hong Kong), rang out, so too did boos
from the crowd. Most dramatically, many fans began to sing in Cantonese
the new unofficial national anthem of Hong Kong, Glory to Hong Kong
(Zialcita, 2019). At half-time, many of these fans joined hands in a human
chain around the pitch to show solidarity with Hong Kong and its desire for
freedom.
Since 2015, there had been several cases of Hong Kong fans booing the
national anthem at football matches (Bridges, 2016). These actions have
usually resulted in the Hong Kong Football Association (HKFA) being
fined by FIFA, the governing body of international football and, indeed,
FIFA again fined the HKFA after the Iran match. However, this was the
largest and most concerted demonstration so far. Compared to other sports,
therefore, football has come to have special symbolic significance in Hong
Kong’s debate over identity, freedom and patriotism, not least during 2019
when many other sporting events were cancelled.
The relative politicisation of sport has not been limited to football or
even to Hong Kong itself. When Daryl Morey, general manager of the
Houston Rockets basketball team, made a political statement in 2019 to
show support for the Hong Kong demonstrators, this triggered protests and
provoked hatred from NBA fans in mainland China. Even though many
Chinese fans were passionate about the Rockets, any disharmony with their


patriotic sentiments was deemed unacceptable. The tension between the
NBA and Chinese officials escalated into crowd disruption when the
Washington Wizards hosted a team from the Chinese Basketball
Association. Protestors handed out ‘Free Hong Kong’ T-shirts and, after the
playing of the Chinese national anthem, one fan shouted, ‘Freedom of
expression! Freedom of speech! Free Hong Kong!’ (Rieken, 2019).
The past 23 years since the handover have proved that Hong Kong
identity is a challenging, fluid and vulnerable concept, especially when it is
accompanied by the shifting of political sovereignty, divided collective
memories and values shared by different generations, and the uncontrollable
flow of social networks within the younger generations. Coupled with a
relatively under-developed sports culture and the emerging use of local
sports events to express localism, all of these challenges will be faced by
Hong Kong if sport continues to be used to foster and affirm a national
identity.
The Beijing 2008 Olympics were used to promote Chinese nationalism
with the aim of strengthening cohesion within ethnically diverse mainland
China and the SARs of Hong Kong and Macau (Bairner and Hwang, 2011).
However, because Hong Kong is now entangled in domestic ‘wars’, and
many of the younger generation are demanding democracy from within,
whether Chinese athletes’ ‘national’ achievements at the Tokyo 2020
Olympics (to be held in 2021) will still have a role to play in nurturing
Chinese national identity in Hong Kong, only time will tell.
Finally but significantly, if finding authors specializing on sport and sub-
national contexts was a challenge, finding authors for salient examples for
women’s sub-national representation was quite beyond hope. What
becomes evident from our chapters is that the body of the nation is still very
much a male one (see Yuval-Davis 2004). This is true particularly where
regions have no official national teams, and scarce resources prioritize men.
In the Basque case, we can observe some effort towards female
representation, as Athletic Bilbao’s Basque-only recruitment philosophy
also applies to women’s soccer. But even so, in the minds of fans, it is not
‘Athletic femenino’ but the men’s team that is the beacon of Basque
identity, and some are not even aware that their female players may only be
Basque too (Vaczi 2015).
While women are largely absent from the narratives of sub-national
identity in sport, they have been present in some narratives of armed


struggle. The Basque and Irish ‘Troubles’ had significant female figures
who have attracted scholarly attention (Aretxaga 1988, 1997, King 2006,
Matthews 2010, Hamilton 2013, Ward 1995), and a certain popular
fascination. Because violent bodies had to be male, women were often
wrapped in an eroticized mystique of archetypes in these narratives.
Women’s discrimination in sport in general has been widely
documented, pointing out religious and cultural incongruities of women’s
roles with sport, and lack of resources. Furthermore, the conspicuous
absence of female athletes in sub-national contexts of representations might
be due to the intersectionality of multiple layers of inequality. They are,
with T.T. Minh-Ha (2009), ‘women, native, Other’: subjected to
marginalization at state level as sub-national subjects, and at sub-national
level as women. They are the internal Others of already Othered
peripheries.
We will always regret the absence of certain themes and regions but
hope that even the absences might inspire further research that addresses
state and sub-national relations through the lens of sport. Our enthusiastic,
cooperative and knowledgeable contributors have set the ball rolling.
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Chapter 1
Sport and the unfinished Irish
Revolution
Alan Bairner
Introduction
On 2 April 2011, Ronan Kerr, a Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI)
officer, was killed when a booby trap bomb exploded under his car outside
his home on the outskirts of Omagh, County Tyrone. His funeral took place
in Omagh on 6 April with Cardinal Sean Brady, the Irish Catholic primate,
leading the requiem mass. In attendance were leading Northern Ireland
politicians, including Deputy First Minister Sinn Féin’s Martin
McGuinness, former PSNI colleagues and members of Kerr’s Beragh Red
Knights Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) club. Dissident Irish
republicans were blamed for Kerr’s killing but no one has ever been
charged with murder. The previous year, Peadar Heffron, who had
captained the PSNI Gaelic football club, had a leg amputated following a
similar booby trap attack on his car.
Radical republicans (a description which they themselves prefer to
dissident republicans) expressed their opposition to leading members of the
GAA attending funerals of “state agents” such as Ronan Kerr (McGlinchey,
2019, p. 110). However, according to the 2012 Northern Ireland Peace
Monitoring Report: Number One, “the funeral of the PSNI officer Ronan
Kerr, killed by dissidents in April 2011, marked a rallying point, bringing
the political, security, religious and sporting elites together in a symbolic


show of unity” (cited in McGlinchey, 2019, p. 159). For radical republicans,
on the other hand, the mourners who gathered that day were collectively the
enemies of the legitimate goal of Irish republicans, namely a 36-county
united Ireland.
Two years earlier, Stephen Carroll, like Ronan Kerr a Catholic, became
the first police officer to be killed in Northern Ireland since the formation of
the PSNI. Carroll had been killed by members of the dissident REAL IRA,
one of them being Brendan McConville, a former Sinn Féin councillor. For
the first time two Sinn Féin elected representatives attended the funeral of a
murdered police officer. After that killing, the late Martin McGuinness
denounced Carroll’s killers as “traitors to the island of Ireland,” “thus
marking the culmination of Sinn Féin’s transformed position regarding
policing” (McGlinchey, 2019, p. 159). As McGlinchey (2019, p. 1) notes
“McGuinness’s comments were widely viewed as a watershed moment in
Irish politics.”
There have been countless violent deaths in Northern Ireland not only
throughout the course of the so-called Troubles but even since the signing
of the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. Few if any, however, have brought
into such sharp relief the complex relationships between different
expressions of Irish republicanism, sport, and law and order.
The aims of this chapter are to explore these relationships and to
consider the ways in which sport has been associated with the quest for
Irish unity, both in Ireland as a whole and more specifically in Northern
Ireland, the six counties which remained part of the United Kingdom after
the partition of Ireland and the establishment, in 1922, of the Irish Free
State (later the Republic of Ireland).
The long march of Irish republicanism
From the partition of Ireland in 1921 until the imposition of direct rule from
London in 1972, Ulster unionism, the creed of those who believed that the
six counties of Northern Ireland should remain part of the United Kingdom
following the independence of the 26 counties of the Irish Free State, ruled
the six counties as what became known by its critics as an ‘Orange State’
(Farrell, 1976) in reference to the Orange Order which was and remains a
significant element of unionist culture. To maintain their political
dominance, successive unionist governments used a combination of


discrimination, gerrymandering and a largely unionist police force, the
Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC). During that period unionism’s main
opponents were Irish nationalists who believed in constitutional change and
physical force, Irish republicans who emphasised the need for armed
struggle in the quest for Irish unification as well as civil rights activists.
The signing of the Good Friday Agreement (GFA) in 1998 not only
meant the end of direct rule and the formation of a devolved Northern
Ireland Assembly but also confirmed the cessation of armed struggle by the
Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA), the main inheritor of the physical
force tradition and the end of the so-called Troubles that had resulted in the
deaths of over 3500 people, including around 2000 who lost their lives to
republican organisations, most notably the IRA. It also signalled the
acceptance by the IRA’s political wing, Sinn Féin, that the future of
Northern Ireland as part of the United Kingdom and hence the prospect of a
united Ireland would be a matter for the consent of the people of Northern
Ireland and not, as had previously been the republican mantra, that this
should be a decision to be made by all of the people of Ireland. Tired of the
conflict and with no military victory in sight, the Sinn Féin leadership and
the majority of the party’s supporters accepted the terms of the GFA which
had included the establishment of a power-sharing Northern Ireland
Assembly and Executive. Sinn Féin politicians would now take their places
at Stormont, which had once been the physical embodiment of Ulster
unionism’s control of the ‘Orange State’ in addition to the Dáil Éireann, the
lower house of the parliament of the 26-county Republic of Ireland. For the
time being, it appeared that constitutional nationalism had triumphed over,
or at least transcended, the physical force tradition. Thus, McKearney
(2011, p. 206) poses the following:
having broken the old Orange state and replaced it with an
administration that not only includes members of the Catholic
population but also former senior members of the IRA, the question
must now be asked whether Republicanism has reached the limit of its
radical potential.
Those who fear that this might be the case can take some comfort from the
fact that the struggle between two competing strains of Irish nationalism is
nothing new. Indeed the modern IRA itself had emerged at the outset of the


Troubles during 1969–1970 to replace what was regarded by many
working-class nationalists in Northern Ireland as an increasingly supine
(Official) Irish Republican Army which was deemed to be incapable of
defending them from attacks by loyalists and the security forces. Indeed,
splits have long been a feature of Irish republican politics and it has come
as no surprise, therefore, that the years shortly before and since the signing
of the GFA have witnessed the emergence of numerous organisations
espousing the cause of ‘radical’ republicanism or what their opponents
would describe as ‘dissident’ republicanism. Most visible among these
groups have been the Continuity IRA, Óglaigh na hÉireann (Soldiers of
Ireland) and the REAL IRA. The main focus of these organisations is to
continue the armed struggle and maintain the integrity of Irish republican
ideology. At the end of the nineteenth century, however, their predecessors
were at least as concerned with the role that sport could play in the pursuit
of Irish independence.
The following sections address the development of the GAA in relation
to the struggle for Irish independence, sport, the national question and the
ongoing quest for Irish unification, and the role of sport as a contributor to
the search for peace in Northern Ireland. The chapter ends with some
concluding remarks and personal reflections.
The Gaelic Athletic Association and Irish secessionism
The history of sport in Ireland is in many ways a microcosm of the island’s
political and cultural history in its entirety (Bairner, 2005). As Cronin
(1999, p. 190) has noted, “until there is only one idea of Irish nationalism,
and a singular and commonly shared expression of identity, then sport will
continue to reflect the multifaceted and ever-changing nature of Irishness.”
In this respect, the historic province of Ulster has played a pivotal role
standing as it now does with three counties in the Republic of Ireland and
the six in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, with
all of the political and sporting implications which that divide involves. The
story of sport in Ireland is a significant element in the history of three
different Irelands – pre-Partition Ireland, the Irish Free State (subsequently
the Republic of Ireland) and Northern Ireland. It also embraces the distinct
but dialectically interwoven narratives of Catholic and Protestant Ireland,


urban and rural Ireland, post-imperial and post-colonial Ireland, and
traditional, modern and even postmodern Ireland (Bairner, 2005).
Modern sport followed a similar evolutionary path in Ireland to that laid
out in England during the nineteenth century, albeit with a degree of
noteworthy local divergence. Urbanisation played its part; so too did
schools. In Ireland, however, rural society was a more forceful influence on
the development of sport than was the case elsewhere, and the military
played an even more significant role than in Britain in relation to the
emergence of modern sport forms. A lasting reminder of the latter is to be
found in the name of the interprovincial trophy for men’s hockey – the
Leinster Regiment Cup (Wynne and Glennon, 1985). The first cricket
match to be played in Ireland took place as early as 1792 on grounds
adjacent to the home of the Viceroy, Lord Westmoreland, and featured on
one side members of the British Army and, on the other, a number of
Anglo-Irish gentlemen, including, almost certainly, the future Duke of
Wellington (Sugden and Bairner, 1993).
It was against this backdrop of widespread and growing enthusiasm for
British sports that, in 1884, the Gaelic Athletic Association was founded in
Thurles, County Tipperary. The aims of its founder Michael Cusack were
twofold – to democratise sport in Ireland by providing greater access to the
Catholic labouring classes through the revival and, to some extent,
reinvention of traditional Irish games and to contribute to the fight against
British cultural imperialism and, by extension, against British rule in
Ireland. The GAA was avowedly political and nationalist from the outset.
However, from the early years following its formation to various periods
thereafter, it has been caught up in a persistent contest between
constitutional nationalists and their physical force adversaries.
The GAA has been consistently viewed as one of the most convincing
examples of the link between sport and nationalism in Ireland generally,
and in Northern Ireland in particular (Hassan, 2005). On the one hand, the
organisation has served as a unifying force among Irish nationalists as a
result of it being able to draw on, and accommodate, all strands of Irish
national opinion. However, on the other hand, the GAA has also suffered
from the endemic factionalism that has pervaded the history of Irish
political life. For example, the association was taken over not long after its
formation by members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB) – or
Fenians – whose advocacy of physical force was opposed by most


constitutional nationalists and by the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, both
of which had been pivotal in establishing the GAA. The IRB had itself
provided two of the Association’s founders – John Wyse Power and J. K.
Bracken (de Búrca, 1999) and would compete with constitutional
nationalists for control of the GAA until the 1890s. As de Búrca (1999, p.
38) comments, “that the GAA survived at all … was astonishing.”
Memories of that period were to be revived in 1981 when GAA leaders
were obliged to address the question of how much support the Association
as a whole and individual counties and clubs should give to the republican
hunger strikers in the Maze prison and when “the GAA hierarchy in Ulster
managed to hold the line. But only just” (Fahy, 2001, p. 14).
Much of the early discussion about the Gaelic games movement took
place in southern counties. But what of the nine counties of Ulster,
including the six that, following Partition, would comprise Northern
Ireland? Although founded in Tipperary, the GAA quickly acquired a
foothold in Ulster and, by 1888, Gaelic football was being played
throughout the nine counties and hurling matches had taken place in
counties Antrim, Donegal and Derry (Hassan, 2009). However, there
followed a steady decline in the fortunes of Gaelic games in Ulster until the
end of the century which continued even after the formation of the Ulster
Council of the GAA on 22 March 1903. In the period after 1916, the
Association was subject to constant vigilance from the British state,
specifically through the activities of the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC).
This policing of the Gaelic games movement persisted after Partition and
the formation of An Gárda Siochána, in the Irish Free State, and the RUC in
Northern Ireland.
Nevertheless, “in spite of obvious difficulties the GAA in Ulster enjoyed
something of a revival in the second decade of the twentieth century”
(Hassan, 2009, p. 84). The year 1923 witnessed the opening in Cavan of
Breffni Park, which was to become so closely identified with Ulster
football. Indeed, Cavan, and to a lesser extent Monaghan, neither of them in
Northern Ireland, dominated Ulster football until the 1950s. In 1933, Cavan
became the first Ulster team to win an all-Ireland senior football title.
Meanwhile Antrim’s pre-eminence in hurling within the province had also
become apparent, though the standard was generally low by comparison
with the powerhouses of hurling in the southern counties.


There also developed a significant rivalry between the Ulster counties
(particularly those within Northern Ireland) and the rest. This was
especially true of Gaelic football (though not of course of hurling where
Ulster teams were only intermittently competitive). In no small measure,
this has been fuelled by the relative success of northern counties since the
early 1990s, with the focus shifting, it should be stressed, from Cavan to
Down, Tyrone, Armagh and Derry. During this period, the All-Ireland
football championship was won by Down (1991 and 1994), Donegal
(1992), Derry (1993), Armagh (2002) and Tyrone (2003, 2005 and 2008).
Of these, only Donegal is situated outside Northern Ireland. Thus, although
it has long been recognised that the Ulster football championship is
arguably the most competitive of the four provincial competitions, the
extent to which counties in Northern Ireland may also have benefitted from
financial support from the British government, not least in the form of
lottery funding, is a matter worthy of consideration (McKeever, 2009). At
least as worthy of further examination is the extent to which sport has not
only reflected but has also perhaps contributed to debates about national
identity both in Ulster and in Ireland as a whole.
One might be forgiven for thinking that Partition and its consequences
would have been less likely to affect Gaelic games than the so-called
foreign games where representation of Ireland became a matter of
contestation to varying degrees. Yet, many of the foreign games, notably
rugby union, cricket and hockey, like the GAA, continued to be centrally
governed from Dublin and remained representative of Ireland as a whole.
Moreover, surprisingly enough, the experiences of the GAA actually
resemble, in certain respects, those of association football more than those
of most ‘foreign’ sports to the extent that Partition has had an undeniable
impact on both.
An important theme running through the literature on the GAA is the
different, and somewhat conflicting, roles that the Association has
performed in the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland in the wake of
Partition, and more recently during the course of the Troubles in the north.
As an all-Ireland organisation with provincial councils, the GAA was
unaffected constitutionally by Partition. No split was necessary as became
the case with football. In addition, the Association was unequivocally
committed to Irish nationalism, albeit with all of the internecine rivalry that
this implied. In this respect, it differed markedly from those other Dublin-


based governing bodies which were obliged not only to operate in two
separate jurisdictions but also to provide leadership to members with
radically opposed political viewpoints. Nevertheless, the possibility that the
new political dispensation led to the emergence of two very different
mindsets within the GAA should not be dismissed out of hand. Indeed, it
has been suggested that, in the south, the GAA, as an important socio-
cultural institution, has become implicated in the celebration of the
existence of a 26-county independent Ireland. There can certainly be little
doubt that it performed a unifying role in the Irish Free State following the
divisive Civil War (Coogan, 2018) and in the consolidation of the Republic
of Ireland thereafter. It is worth noting, for example, its contribution to the
commemoration of the 1916 Easter Rising, which consisted of a series of
events which had relatively little to say about the six counties of Northern
Ireland (Crosson, 2019).
The GAA’s role in Northern Ireland, however, has been more conflicted.
It has even been suggested that the GAA in Northern Ireland has attained a
de facto semi-autonomous status (Hassan, 2005). While the GAA in the
Irish Free State (subsequently the Republic of Ireland) was able to play an
important role in providing cultural and sporting ballast to the newly
independent state and thereby to become part of the establishment, in
Northern Ireland the Association continued to play its traditional
oppositional role in the face of ongoing state surveillance (which included
the occupation by the British Army of some Gaelic grounds, most notably
that of Crossmaglen Rangers in south Armagh) and increasingly violent
attacks by loyalist paramilitary organisations, spurred on by the common
belief in unionist/loyalist circles that the GAA was ‘the IRA at play.’
Ulster’s border regions together with parts of greater Belfast were
particularly vulnerable in this regard (Fahy, 2001). For example, between
1981 and 2002, the St Enda’s club in Glengormley on the northern outskirts
of Belfast lost five members to loyalist violence (the mother of one young
player, Colin Lundy, was also killed when she and her son were burned to
death when loyalists poured petrol through their letter box) (Crossan, 2018).
It is difficult to gauge precisely what impact these differing
circumstances have had on individual members of the GAA, north and
south. There is evidence, however, that the GAA in the north, where there
was some overlap in membership of Sinn Féin, was more seriously affected
by the controversy surrounding the 1981 Republican Hunger Strikes with


some Ulster clubs declaring their support for the hunger strikers and the
Ulster Council fighting hard to maintain unity. It is significant, moreover,
when the GAA was later faced with major decisions about dismantling rules
with political implications, representatives from the North regularly found
themselves in conflict with their southern counterparts.
This was certainly true of the debate in 2001 which resulted in the
removal of Rule 21 which had prevented members of the British security
forces (including the RUC and subsequently the PSNI) to join the GAA. It
was also apparent in the 2005 debate about the modification of the GAA’s
Rule 42 to allow Croke Park in Dublin to be used for rugby union and
soccer international matches. On this occasion, delegates from five of the
six northern counties (Down being the exception) voted not to amend the
rulebook. Their position was widely interpreted as an expression of a hard-
line, traditional nationalism, one increasingly confined to nationalists in
Northern Ireland (Fulton and Bairner, 2007). The day after Congress voted
to amend Rule 42, the editorial in The Sunday Times commended the
Association and encouraged it to take the next step and repeal the rule
altogether. “The GAA’s mono-culturalism,” it stated, “belongs in the early
years of the 20th century, not the 21st, and that is where yesterday’s vote
has consigned it” (Sunday Times, 2005). But it also bemoaned the votes of
the northern counties:
Unfortunately, the vote also revealed the traditional fault lines that run
through the GAA. It is deeply disappointing that, after a decade of
peace in Northern Ireland, the northern counties should vote in favour
of the status quo. Their refusal to countenance change demonstrates
how far the peace process has still to travel if it is to decommission
mindsets as well as illegal arms.
Insofar as the editorial presents the political developments of the peace
process in a singularly positive manner, it misrepresents the social and
political context within which Northern Irish GAA delegates cast their
votes. There is little appreciation of the ways in which the peace process, in
its attempts to manage conflict and celebrate difference, has contributed to
positive political change and simultaneously served to institutionalise
sectarianism.


Irish sport, Irish independence and Irish unification
It is undeniable that the GAA, or at least GAA members have made a
significant contribution to the struggle for independence and, thereafter, for
Irish unification. They were actively involved in the Easter Rising of 1916,
which was the catalyst for a quickening in the pace of the struggle for Irish
independence from Britain, which eventually came about, for 26 counties,
following a War of Independence between 1919 and 1921 and a Civil War
from 1922 to 1923, during which members fought on both sides of the
conflict. According to Coogan (2018), the GAA was the pioneer body in the
defence of the national interest with considerable emphasis being placed on
the contribution of Cork and Kerry GAA members to the War of
Independence and the Civil War (Dwyer, 2018).
A more symbolic, but nonetheless important, aspect of the GAA’s
contribution to Irish nationalist and republican politics lies in the naming of
many Gaelic clubs and grounds (Cronin, 1998). Irish republican heroes
whose names have been given to Gaelic grounds include Patrick Pearse,
one of the leaders of the Easter Rising, Liam Mellows, a former leader of
the IRA, James Stephens, a founding member of the IRB, and Roger
Casement, a leading figure in the IRB and an importer of weapons to
support the Easter Rising. Nationalists and republicans who are
remembered in the names of Gaelic clubs in Ireland and beyond include
Wolf Tone, Henry Joy McCracken, Robert Emmett, John Mitchel, Patrick
Sarsfield, Seán MacDermott and Charles Kickham. More recently,
controversy surrounded the naming of the hurling section of Dungiven
Gaelic Athletic Club after Kevin Lynch, a native of the County Derry town
and former member, who died on the republican hunger strike in the Maze
prison in 1981.
It is worth noting that no Gaelic club in Ireland itself appears to bear the
name of James Connolly who, together with James Larkin, formed the Irish
Citizen Army (ICA) in 1913. He was one of the leaders of the Easter Rising
and, after the Rising, was executed by a British firing squad. The only
credible explanation for why a republican martyr of such stature is not
celebrated in the names of Gaelic clubs throughout the 32 counties is that he
was also a Marxist, a fact that would have met with the disproval of the
Catholic Church whose parishes have been so closely associated with the
development of the Gaelic games movement. There is the Charlotte James


Connolly’s GAA in Charlotte, North Carolina, although the club’s website
gives no indication as to why Connolly’s name was chosen apart from the
fact that the bar in the city which sponsors the club is called Connolly’s On
Fifth and sells T-shirts bearing an image of the noted republican. More
explicable is the Dúnedin Connollys Gaelic football club in Edinburgh,
Scotland, James Connolly’s birthplace.
Association football and the Irish national question
The Football Association was established in England in 1863, followed by
the Scottish Football Association in 1873, the Football Association of
Wales in 1876 and the Irish Football Association (IFA) in 1880. Due to the
pioneering role of these four associations, they still hold four out of the
eight seats on the International Football Association Board which
determines the laws of the game, the other four seats being assigned to
FIFA. The four British associations are independent members of UEFA and
FIFA and have come together in the past only on very rare occasions to
compete in the Olympic Games.
In Ireland, it was perhaps inevitable that a ‘British’ or ‘foreign’ game
such as football would become embroiled in politics especially, albeit
ironically, once it proved in one sense to be relatively inclusive in its reach.
As Garnham (2004, p. 148) reports with reference to the pre-Partition era, it
seems that association football was “both influenced and affected by the
politics of the day, and in some areas by allied sectarian considerations.”
Thus, “its identity was eventually to be defined by some in terms of the
national and political.” What is often ignored in all of this is the
contribution of football (or soccer) players to the struggle for Irish
independence as well as to Partition.
Even before Partition, football had been affected by the various political
crises that had occurred in the years leading up to the creation of the Irish
Free State. For example, during what Garnham (2004, p. 149) refers to as
“what appeared to be the inexorable approach of Home Rule,” Belfast’s
football grounds became components in the political unrest with
Glentoran’s ground in the east of the city being used for unionist
demonstrations and Celtic Park in the west being used for Home Rule
rallies and for the drilling of nationalist Irish Volunteers. Thus, “if politics
came to exert some influence over Irish football, it was also the case that


football could have some influence and importance within Irish politics”
(Garnham, 2004, p. 149).
Garnham (2004, p. 162) further suggests that “as early as 1893
footballers in Dublin voiced their belief that they were being excluded from
international honours by an IFA dominated by the representatives of the
larger northern clubs.” However, it was not only Dubliners who were
concerned with what were perceived to be pro-Belfast biases; similar
complaints were being voiced in counties Armagh, Derry and Tyrone. What
was undeniable was that football games in Ireland were becoming more and
more contentious, both on and off the field of play, creating a sense that
even had Ireland not been divided, Irish football almost certainly would
have been (Moore, 2015). By 1920, most competitions had been suspended
so that “only the Irish Cup remained as a functioning all-Ireland
tournament” (Garnham, 2004, p. 176). However, with the semi-final
between Glenavon and Shelbourne in Belfast drawn, the IFA decided that
the Dublin club should travel north again for the replay. Shelbourne refused,
thereby prefiguring the partition of Irish soccer (Moore, 2015).
The opposition of Dublin clubs to the authority of the Belfast-based
governing body might at first glance seem odd given that football had long
been regarded, especially by members of the GAA, as a British sport. It
would be wrong to assume, however, that those who favoured the game
rather than the more explicitly nationalist Gaelic football or hurling were
likely to be unionist in their politics. Oscar Traynor, “a man of impeccable
Republican credentials” (Ó Maonaigh, 2017) who saw action throughout
the 1916 Easter Rising, the War of Independence and the Civil War, enjoyed
a successful playing career in Dublin and later with Belfast Celtic and from
1948 until his death in 1963 was President of the Football Association of
Ireland (FAI), then as now the governing body in the 26 counties. In 1928,
Traynor wrote an article for Football Sports Weekly with the title ‘The
Crime of Playing Soccer’ (McCabe, 2011). He noted that there were many
who thought that his connection with Irish republicanism was incompatible
with his love of the so-called ‘barracks’ game, the game loved by British
soldiers. He wryly remarked, however, that there were many Dublin-based
Gaelic football teams whose membership was unaffected by the casualty
figures sustained by republicans during the Easter Rising and noted that,
among the republicans imprisoned by the British after the Rising, many
were football men. Indeed, according to Ó Maonaigh (2017, p. 633), “it is


not surprising that the IRA’s Dublin Brigade contained a considerable
number of association football players due to the sport’s popularity in the
capital city.” The popularity of football in other Irish cities, notably Belfast
and Derry, is a theme to which we shall return in due course.
Since Partition, Irish association football has had two national governing
bodies, the IFA and the FAI, which was founded in 1921 and governs the
game in the Republic of Ireland, two sets of domestic competitions and two
national teams. Until the 1950s the northern IFA continued to select players
for international duty from throughout Ireland and, until the early 1970s,
reference was still being made to Ireland rather than Northern Ireland when
the ‘national’ team was discussed. As the Troubles deepened, however, the
IFA’s team, or at least its support base, became increasingly identified with
Ulster unionism even though Catholics from Northern Ireland – Pat
Jennings, Martin O’Neill, Mal Donaghy, Gerry Armstrong and others –
were among its more prominent players. The fact the most northern
nationalists supported the Irish Republic’s team meant that at the level of
fandom at least the existence of two ‘national’ soccer teams reflected the
sectarian conflict in the North rather than the constitutional status quo
(Fulton, 2005; Hassan, 2005). Moreover, in Northern Ireland itself, because
the game is so popular with members of both political traditions, it has
frequently provided a sporting space in which surrogate inter-community
(and intra-community) rivalries can be fought out (Bairner and Shirlow,
1998; Magee, 2005). Indeed, the constant threat of sectarian conflict was
one of the factors with led Celtic to withdraw from the Irish League in 1949
(Coyle, 1999). In the early years of the Troubles, Derry City was also
obliged to leave the league for similar reasons (Duke and Crolley, 1996).
Furthermore, for many years – with security fears again being cited as the
reason – Cliftonville Football Club from north Belfast was forced to play all
of its ‘home’ games against Linfield at the latter’s Windsor Park in the
south of the city. In sum, although association football may well be the
national sport of Ireland according to some criteria, it appears to have done
very little to unite the peoples of the island – a distinction it shares, albeit
for different reasons and, to a much greater extent, with the GAA.
One high-profile attempt to surmount divisions led to an all-Ireland team
in the guise of Shamrock Rovers playing against Brazil and, at various
times, all-Ireland cup competitions have re-emerged. In recent years,
however, the chasm between the IFA and its southern counterparts, the FAI,


has remained wide. Undermining the possibility of having one governing
body and one national team for the whole of Ireland has been the growing
phenomenon of young northern nationalists opting to play for the Republic
of Ireland team rather than Northern Ireland (McGee and Bairner, 2011),
the best known early example of which was Manchester United’s Darron
Gibson. Considerably more interesting, however, in relation to Irish politics
and specifically to Irish republicanism, is James McClean, currently playing
in the English Championship for Stoke City.
McClean began his international career with the Northern Ireland under-
21 team but, like a number of other Catholic players born in Northern
Ireland, he has chosen to pursue a senior international career playing for the
Republic of Ireland for whom he has won 65 international caps. Since 2012,
football clubs in England have taken to the field of play on the Saturday
closest to 11 November wearing shirts embroidered with the Earl Haig
Poppy, which was first worn as an act of remembrance for the dead of the
First World War and later the Second World War. As an Irish republican
from the city of Derry, however, McClean sees the poppy today not as a
symbol of remembrance but rather as a sign of support for the modern
British military and has consistently refused to wear the specially made
shirt. According to McClean, the poppy “stands for all the conflicts that
Britain has been involved in,” including in his native Ireland (Stromberg,
2017). For this he has received considerable abuse from football fans
throughout England and even death threats. In the 2019–20 season he was
subjected to extensive sectarian abuse when Stoke played away at Barnsley,
Huddersfield Town and Millwall. In McClean, the spirit of Oscar Trainor
lives on.
Sport and peace in Northern Ireland
History and sport intertwine. As Connerton (1989, p. 3) comments,
“concerning social memory in particular, we may note that images of the
past commonly legitimate a present social order.” The alternative, of course,
is that they may destabilise an already fragile present. This was certainly the
case in relation to debates about a proposed ‘national’ sports stadium for
Northern Ireland. The British government decided that the most appropriate
location for a new 42,500-seater stadium was the site of the former Maze
prison (Long Kesh as it was known to generations of loyalists and


republican prisoners who were housed there from the 1970s until 2000)
(Bairner, 2007). All the relevant parties agreed to support the initiative in
principle. However, the choice of location caused controversy for a variety
of reasons, all of which shed light on the intimate relationship between
sport and politics in Northern Ireland. The government’s decision was
prompted in no small measure by the fact that it already owned the land,
thereby alleviating the fear of excessive costs which would be associated
with building the new stadium closer to the centre of Belfast. However,
selecting a site which is 10 miles outside the city was clearly at odds with
strategies aimed at linking sport and leisure to urban regeneration and civic
boosterism. It also depended on major developments in the transport
infrastructure and arguably a review of both the Regional Development
Strategy and the Belfast Metropolitan Area Plan.
An additional complication arose from the fact that the former prison
itself has such a significant place in the history of the Troubles, not least as
the site of the 1981 hunger strike which led to the deaths of Kevin Lynch,
Bobby Sands and eight other prisoners. More generally, the very idea that
the project should be referred to as a ‘national’ stadium for Northern Ireland
was contentious.
Part of the unionist critique was clearly political. According to the
Amalgamation of Official Northern Ireland Supporters’ Clubs (2006),
although the SIB (Strategic Investment Board) assured us that the site
would be a neutral space, it is hard to believe that the site will not be
honoured as a place of martyrdom turning into a ghoulish tourist
attraction. This is unlikely to endear the site to an average sports fan
who is not interested in such controversial and divisive symbolism.
In truth, there are few sports fans in Northern Ireland who are wholly
apolitical and what is likely to please one faction is almost certain to anger
another. Calls for the preservation of at least one of the prison’s so-called
H-Blocks were partly answered in the preliminary plans for the new
stadium. These proposed that, in addition to restaurants, offices, a multi-
screen cinema and a hotel, the surrounding site should include an
International Conflict Transformation Centre with one of the old H-Blocks,
H6 where arguably the seeds of the hunger strike were sown, being
preserved along with the prison hospital where the hunger strikers died


(Bairner, 2007). In the end, the project was stillborn, dashed in no small
measure by divided opinions about where and how historical events should
be remembered.
More significant perhaps is the question of where the Peace Process and
the re-introduction of institutions of devolved government for Northern
Ireland have left nationalism and, more controversially, republicanism. Is
former republican prisoner Anthony McIntyre correct to claim that the
majority of republicans in the north of Ireland, especially in Belfast, were
never fully committed to the idea of a united Ireland, motivated as they
were primarily by the desire for social justice which could be, and arguably
has been, accommodated through reform within Northern Ireland? As
McIntyre (2008, p. 228) reminded his readers in 2004,
before the Provisional IRA was founded the Unionist prime minister of
Northern Ireland, Terence O’Neill, pompously stated that if the
Unionist community would only treat Catholics well and allow them
some prosperity, they would stop having seventeen children and come
to live like Protestants.
According to McIntyre, “his day has come.”
Horgan and Morrison (2011, p. 662) argue that “the continued success of
a fully politicised Sinn Féin at the polls provides the most significant
indication of the delegitimisation of the existence of these groups [the
dissidents] and their rejection by the vast majority of the Irish republican
population.” It could be argued, however, that electoral support for Sinn
Féin in Northern Ireland does not necessarily equate to support for Irish
unification, which is the declared raison d’être of the dissidents. Indeed,
based on a study of the attitudes and aspirations of contemporary Northern
Irish Catholics, Breen (2019, p. 158) argues that “it appears Catholics may
vote for nationalist or republican parties in elections, but would not
necessarily vote to unite Ireland, and abandon the British state.” On the
other hand, according to Evans and Tonge (2012, p. 75), “there is some
limited evidence that the isolation of Republican ultras, although
considerable, is perhaps not quite as utterly comprehensive as might
previously have been assumed or declared.” For their supporters, it remains
necessary to resist foreign occupation in response to a mandate given by the
Irish people following the Easter Rising.


Conclusion and personal reflections
In late 1995, I was approached jointly by the Probation Board for Northern
Ireland and the Community Relations Council of Northern Ireland to take
part in a project whereby academics and others would talk with prisoners on
a variety of subjects. The main aim was to capture the interest of those
prisoners not currently taking advantage of the formal educational
opportunities offered in the prison. It was felt that sport was a subject that
was likely to attract the attention of this group as well as of prisoners
already actively engaged in education. With this goal in mind, I paid regular
visits to HM Prison Maze, or Long Kesh, between March 1996 and October
1999 (Bairner, 2016). The subjects about which I actually talked evolved
over time with IRA prisoners asking if I would also lead sessions on
political ideologies.
Although most republican prisoners were satisfied with the opportunity
while in prison to play what some of them consistently referred to as
‘soccer,’ there were still debates among them about the rival merits of this
‘foreign’ pastime and Gaelic games such as football and hurling, not only as
sports per se but also in terms of the relationship of each to versions of Irish
nationalism. Battle lines in these discussions normally coincided with a
rural/urban divide with prisoners from country areas more likely to make
the case for Gaelic games whereas prisoners from the cities of Belfast and
Derry were more inclined to favour ‘soccer’ or what they termed ‘football.’
The latter were usually supporters of Celtic Football Club in Glasgow and
either Cliftonville Football Club in Belfast or Derry City. This division is
widely replicated among the nationalist population of Northern Ireland as a
whole. Exceptions exist, as they did in the Maze, but these only serve to
prove the general rule.
Support for English football teams could become a more controversial
matter. One prisoner, who regularly wore his Nottingham Forest shirt to
sessions, was chastised by supporters of Gaelic games and Celtic alike. One
even suggested that the prisoner in question could just as easily be English
given his support for Forest, the fact that he read the Mirror newspaper and
his love of Coronation Street, a television soap opera set in Manchester. His
response to his critics was to point out that what made him different from
most working-class Englishmen was that he was a member of the IRA.
With this, what had been a relatively heated discussion came to an end.


Perhaps the most interesting debate among IRA prisoners, not least in
light of the peace process and the accompanying dissident republican
violence, centred on the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland
international football teams. It came as no surprise that few republican
prisoners expressed any enthusiasm for the latter. Again this replicated
attitudes among the nationalist community at large. Contrary to the general
support for the Irish Republic, however, one prisoner commented that he
could not bring himself to support either team because both were products
of the partition of Ireland. The 26-county Republic of Ireland, in his
opinion, was, or should be, as much of an anathema to Irish republicans as
the six-county ‘statelet’ of Northern Ireland. He longed for both a
politically united Ireland and well as a 32-county international football
team. One of his fellow prisoners commented, only partly in jest, that given
the attitudes that prevailed within the IFA, there was actually a greater
likelihood of a united Ireland than a united Ireland football team. However,
the main point had been clearly made. Republican prisoners, and the
republican movement, as a whole, were at odds in relation to the peace
process and what it might mean for the ultimate goal of a 32-county
republic.
Overall the rural/urban divide was particularly apparent in relation not
only to their preferred sports but also to their ideological position with
urban republicans being considerably more supportive of socialist ideas. On
the outside, this was also manifest in the imagery of the banner draped over
the perimeter fencing at Cliftonville’s home ground by the so-called
Cliftonville Red Skins (named not as an insult to native Americans, but to
announce the fact that they were left-wing skinheads). The banner itself
included the Starry Plough emblem of Connolly’s ICA, as well as the well-
known image of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara. It is not the sort of banner that one
would expect to see at a rural GAA match.
Although some of the prisoners whom I met have gone on to become
dissidents and some fans of Cliftonville and Derry City are no doubt
sympathisers of radical republicanism, none of this is to argue that the
dissident world view is exclusive to city dwellers and football fans. Far
from it. However, the fact that many of the dissidents espouse a socialist
brand of Irish republicanism is more likely to attract young people in
deprived nationalist areas of Belfast and Derry than in other parts of
Northern Ireland. The fact that men such as James Connolly argued not


only for a 32-county Irish republic but for a socialist Irish republic tells us
that the revolution for which he fought and died undoubtedly remains
unfinished.
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Chapter 2
Sport and secessionism in Scotland
Stuart Whigham
Introduction
Following their resounding victory in the 2011 Scottish Parliament
elections which gave the pro-independent Scottish National Party (SNP) a
parliamentary majority, the SNP-led Scottish government entered into
negotiations with the coalition Westminster government. These negotiations
eventually resulted in the signing of the ‘Edinburgh Agreement’ in October
2012 which legislated for a single-question referendum before the end of
2014, in line with the SNP’s preference for a referendum date in the autumn
of 2014. However, much to the disappointment of the pro-independence
‘Yes’ campaign, the result of the 2014 Scottish independence saw 55.3 per
cent of the electorate voting ‘No’ to Scottish independence as opposed to
44.7 per cent voting ‘Yes’. Nonetheless, further succour for advocates of
Scottish independence has been provided by the outcome of the UK-wide
referendum on European Union (EU) membership, which resulted in a
victory for the anti-EU ‘Leave’ campaign which supported the UK’s
withdrawal from the EU, despite strong electoral support in Scotland to
‘Remain’ within the EU (McEwen, 2018). Regardless of the outcome, the
very occurrence of the referendum on Scottish independence in September
2014 undoubtedly illustrated that political nationalism and support for the
prospect of Scotland’s secession from the United Kingdom has increased in
recent years.


Given this, this chapter seeks to critically examine the long-term
development of rising support for Scottish independence, and the specific
role of sporting issues in relation to Scottish political nationalism at various
historical junctures, up to and including the present state of affairs in the
Scottish political context at the start of the 2020s. A number of historical
and contemporary issues which illustrate the complex interconnection
between sporting, cultural and political nationalism in Scotland are
considered, demonstrating that a simplistic conflation between these
contrasting forms and domains of nationalist sentiment is highly
problematic in the Scottish context.
The chapter will firstly explore the impact of Scotland’s comparatively
privileged status within international sport as a ‘stateless nation’ which
possesses independent, representative national teams in sports such as
football and rugby union, considering the extent to which this historical
anachronism has reinforced a notion of a distinctive Scottish ‘nation’ within
the UK. The existence of this privileged sporting status for Scotland is
temporally contextualised within the historical context which led to
Scotland’s incorporation into the United Kingdom through the 1707 Act of
Union, illustrating how the symbolism of Scotland’s sporting independence
during the global spread of international sport in the post-Union period of
the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries simultaneously reinforced and
undermined the nascent claims for a ‘restoration’ of Scottish political
independence.
Attention will then turn to various examples which illustrate the
interconnection between modern sport and political nationalism in Scotland
in the twentieth century, including the ‘Home Internationals’ between
Scotland and England which exposed political and social conflicts between
these two nations, the dualistic symbolism of international sporting events
such as the Olympics and Commonwealth Games, and the oft-cited
interconnection between Scotland’s failure in the 1978 FIFA World Cup and
the unsuccessful campaign to (re)establish a Scottish parliament in 1979.
These developments are charted alongside the fluctuating, but gradually
increasing, support for Scottish political sovereignty which prevailed
throughout the twentieth century, culminating in the eventual establishment
of a devolved Scottish Parliament in 1999.
Finally, turning attention to the contemporary period from the turn of
twenty-first century to the present, exploring the use of sport as a means for


political campaigning during the historically unprecedented events of the
Scottish independence referendum of 2014, as well as the political and
constitutional turmoil which has continued to prevail in Scotland given the
UK’s protracted withdrawal from the EU following the 2016 UK-wide
referendum result on ‘Brexit’. To this end, discussion of the domain of sport
will focus on various contemporary sporting issues and phenomena which
occurred during this constitutional and political maelstrom, such as the
London 2012 Olympics, the 2014 Glasgow Commonwealth Games and the
use of sporting personalities within the various constitutional plebiscites
during this period.
Sport and secessionism in Scotland – the historical
roots of the Scottish ‘nation’ in sport
The fragmentary nature of Scotland’s early history presents significant
foundational challenges to any attempts to identify the origins of the
Scottish ‘nation’. For example, it could be argued that the true origins of the
Scottish nation stem from the delineation of territories through the
construction of the Roman frontier walls, or through the joining of the
Scottish and Pictish lands by Kenneth MacAlpin in 843, or by the signing
of the Treaty of York in 1237 which legally defined the border between
Scotland and England (Mitchison, 1970). Although the Treaty of York acted
to establish the border between Scotland and England, the onset of the
‘Wars of Independence’ between the two countries at the end of the
thirteenth century again represent a historical development which still
carries resonance for contemporary reflections on the origins of the Scottish
nation and Scottish nationalism, in terms of both the mythology of
Scotland’s historical struggle for independence and the framing of England
as the ‘Auld Enemy’ in this historical struggle.
The first such example is the popular Scottish revolt led by William
Wallace in 1297, culminating in the Scottish success over the English forces
at Stirling Bridge in September of that year (Maclean, 2000). The
endeavours of Wallace and his army gained heroic and legendary status in
popular Scottish history throughout the centuries since the defeat at Falkirk,
epitomised by the popularity of the 1995 film Braveheart, which
mythologised Wallace’s historical endeavours (Edensor, 1997, 2002).
Following Wallace, the second major Scottish uprising against English


forces was led by Robert Bruce, culminating in conflict with a mass English
army under Edward II, meeting Bruce’s forces at the battle of Bannockburn
in June 1314 (Maclean, 2000; Mitchison, 1970). Despite being significantly
outnumbered by the English forces, the battle ended with a resounding
underdog victory for Bruce’s forces and re-established the independence of
the Scottish kingdom.
The narrative trope of Scotland’s underdog status invoked by
Bannockburn continues to resonate within its political and sporting
endeavour to this day (Whigham, 2014). The recurrent framing of Scotland
as an embattled, oppressed, but valorous nation throughout its pre-Union
military and political battles with the English is easily translated to the
domain of sport, whereby Scotland’s relatively scarce sporting resources
have resulted in an approach to sporting competition which is peppered
with ‘glorious failures’ where Scotland has offered a plucky yet ultimately
unsuccessful attempt in various sporting competitions. Furthermore, to this
very day, England continues to act as the significant other for Scotland in
terms of sporting competition in sports such as football and rugby union
(Bairner, 1994; Massie, 2000; Moorhouse, 1986, 1987, 1995; Whigham and
Gibbons, 2018). In sum, despite the fact that the opportunities for
formalised sporting competitions between Scotland and England did not
commence until well after the political union between the two nations, the
symbolic foundations for the sporting rivalry between the two nations and
its resonance for secessionist nationalist movements can be easily identified
in Scotland’s pre-Union history as a sovereign, independent nation.
The 1707 Act of Union marked the end of Scotland’s existence as an
independent and sovereign nation. Through the provisions of the Act, the
separate Scottish and English parliaments ceased to exist, replaced by a
unified parliament of the kingdom of Great Britain to sit at Westminster
(Devine, 1999; Hanham, 1969; Maclean, 2000). Despite the numerous
economic benefits to Scotland which harnessed the support of the Scottish
Parliament to agree to the Act, a great deal of animosity and reluctance to
support Union was demonstrated prior to and following 1707 (Devine,
1999; Hanham, 1969; Harvie, 1998). Despite the significant losses for the
governance of Scottish society in the Act, provisions were made to ensure
that numerous elements of Scottish civil society were able to retain an
element of autonomy and distinctiveness within the Union. The Act
legislated for the maintenance of the ‘holy trinity’ of independent church,


legal and educational systems following the Union (McCrone, 1992),
ensuring that the Presbyterian and Episcopalian systems of worship would
remain as the ‘established’ churches of Scotland and England, respectively
(Larkin, 2011; Maclean, 2000, Pittock, 2012). Devine (1999) and Mitchison
(1970) argue that the stability of the Union was secured due to the
economic benefits which Scotland exploited during the eighteenth century,
ensuring that the Scottish elite maintained their support for Scotland’s
constitutional status. Furthermore, for Harvie, this was due to the continued
existence of ‘semi-independence’ for Scotland within the Union, echoing
the arguments of McCrone (1992) regarding the importance of the ‘holy
trinity’ of independent Scottish civil society.
However, while this ‘holy trinity’ of Scotland’s independent religious,
legal and educational systems is a little known phenomenon outside of
Scotland, sport has been argued to have mimicked the impact of the ‘holy
trinity’ in terms of reinforcing a distinctive sense of Scottish nationhood,
and has in many ways been more efficacious in portraying Scotland’s
distinctive status on an international stage (Bairner, 1994; Jarvie and
Walker, 1994; McCrone, 1992). Indeed, the origins of Scotland’s privileged
status as an independent sporting nation lie within this very same post-
Union era in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, wherein the ‘home
nations’ of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland emerged as rare
examples of internationally recognised representative teams in sports such
as football and rugby despite their lack of independent statehood. This
historical anachronism derives from the central role played by the British
nations in the codification, establishment and internationalisation of sport
such as football, rugby, cricket, golf, tennis and hockey (among others).
The unique status afforded to the ‘home nations’ in the domain of
international sport also allowed for an opportunity to symbolically
perpetuate the historical rivalry between Scotland and England during this
period. Indeed, the first ever international football fixture in 1872 was
between Scotland and England, marking the start of the sporting rivalry
between Scotland and the ‘Auld Enemy’. As alluded to above, these
fixtures retained a special status for Scottish fans in particular, with the pre-
Union history of political and historical enmity between the two nations
increasingly invoked throughout the historical and symbolic development
of this rivalry (Bairner, 1994; Massie, 2000; Moorhouse, 1986, 1987;
Whigham, 2014; Whigham and Gibbons, 2018). At this point, sport can


thus be seem to replicated the growth of ‘romantic’ cultural nationalism in
Scotland in the early Victorian era (Devine, 1999; Harvie, 1998; Pittock,
2008a), captured in Nairn’s (1977) contentions regarding the ‘Caledonian
Antisyzgy’, which is epitomised by a ‘head’ versus ‘heart’ debate in the
Scottish constitutional debate and the nature of Scottish national identities,
whereby Scots can maintain a cultural identification with a distinct Scottish
nation while rejecting claims of secessionist nationalist movements seeking
to achieve Scottish independence.
Nonetheless, the 1880s saw the issue of home rule for Scotland gaining
prominence in political discussions. Thus 1886 saw the establishment of the
Scottish Home Rule Association which aimed to engender cross-party
support for Scottish home rule and the establishment of a Scottish
parliament (Devine, 1999), with some Liberals in Scotland beginning to
endorse the policy (Harvie, 1998). James Keir Hardie, the founder of the
Scottish Labour Party in 1888 and a co-founder of the UK-wide Labour
Party, was also a keen supporter of Scottish home rule, ensuring that the
cause began to receive cross-party support (Maclean, 2000; Mitchison,
1970). Given this growing prominence for Scottish political nationalism in
the late nineteenth century, whether in the form of claims of additional
devolved powers for Scotland within the Union or secessionist nationalism
which sought to re-establish an independent Scottish nation-state, attention
will now turn to charting the development of the relationship between sport
and secessionist nationalism in the twentieth century.
Sport and secessionism in Scotland in the twentieth
century
Secessionist nationalist sentiment in Scotland continued to grow in the early
twentieth century, bolstered by the electoral momentum of parties
sympathetic to the cause of Scottish ‘home rule’ movements during this
period. Indeed, had it not been for the outbreak of the First World War in
1914, it has been argued that the Scottish Home Rule Bill, which had
advanced to its second reading before the start of this conflict, would have
likely progressed into law (Devine, 1999; Hanham, 1969; Harvie, 1998).
The conflict of 1914–1918 initially appeared to have a decimating effect on
the progress of secessionist nationalist political movements in Scotland,
whether due to the economic and human costs of the war or the


symbolically unifying effect for Scots participating in large-scale conflict
with compatriots from the rest of the UK. Nonetheless, concurrently with
the economic decline suffered across the UK in the late 1920s and early
1930s, the inter-war period witnessed the establishment of nationalist
movements in the form of the National Party of Scotland (NPS) in 1928 and
the Scottish Self-Government Party (SSGP) in 1932 (Harvie, 1998),
effectively replacing the floundering home rule movement supported by the
established political parties represented at the Westminster Parliament. In
1934, the NPS and the SSGP merged to form the Scottish National Party
(SNP), which has developed into the most effective political vehicle for
Scottish secessionist nationalism throughout the twentieth century.
Although the SNP failed to achieve any significant electoral successes
until the 1970s, due to the dominance of the Labour Party in the post-war
era of Scottish politics, a further period of economic stagnation in the 1970s
saw the SNP begin to achieve greater success in winning representation
within the ‘first-past-the-post’ electoral system of Westminster (Harvie,
1998; Leith and Soule, 2011). The growing electoral success of the SNP has
been argued to have revolved around a number of complementary
ideological and symbolic arguments, such as: (1) a narrative regarding the
‘democratic deficit’, which sees the Scottish electorate ruled by
Conservative governments at Westminster despite a majority of Labour
MPs in Scotland (Leith and Soule, 2011; Pittock, 2012); (2) the ‘It’s
Scotland’s Oil’ campaign of the 1970s and 1980s which emphasised a lost
economic boon for Scotland following the discovery of vast reserves of oil
and gas in Scottish territory in the North Sea (Devine, 1999; Nairn, 1977);
and (3) a post-colonial narrative which represents Scotland as a once-
independent nation which was subject to a process of ‘internal colonialism’
by England through the 1707 Act of Union (Hechter, 1975; Mycock, 2012).
Sport continued to play a role in symbolically perpetuating a number of
these narrative tropes of secessionist nationalism in Scotland during this
period. For example, the work of Moorhouse (1986, 1987) argued that Scots
suffered from a form of ‘repressed nationalism’ in the domain of sport,
expressed through resentment of their English neighbours in the annual
‘Home International’ football fixtures between Scotland and England.
Similar arguments have been made by numerous other scholars of football
and Scottish nationalism during this period (Bairner, 1994; Jarvie and
Walker, 1994), while others have extended these arguments to the sport of


rugby in discussions of the symbolism of the annual ‘Five Nations’
competition between the four home nations and France (now ‘Six Nations’
following the addition of Italy in 2000), which pits Scotland against
England for the Calcutta Cup (Bairner, 2000; Jarvie, 1993; Jarvie and Reid,
1999; Jarvie and Walker, 1994, Kowalski, 2004; Massie, 2000).
Furthermore, the portrayal of Scotland’s economic exploitation by its
English neighbours in the ‘It’s Scotland’s Oil’ and ‘internal colonialism’
narratives has also been argued to have proved analogous to the world of
sport during this period, exemplified best by the loss of Scottish sporting
talent to English leagues due to greater sporting and economic opportunities
available in England (Moorhouse, 1987).
The exploits of Scottish sportspeople in individual sports such as tennis,
golf and the Olympic sports also provided an opportunity to reinforce a
sense of distinct Scottish national identity. In particular, the successes of
Scottish sportspeople during this period were often given additional
attention by the Scottish media and spectating public, thus reclaiming the
‘Scottishness’ of these achievements even when representing the United
Kingdom as whole (Whigham, 2014). The conditional nature of the support
offered by the Scottish media and sports fans to athletes in individual sports
is further complicated in the case of the Commonwealth Games, given that
the home nations split off to compete against each other in this event
(Haynes and Boyle, 2008: Jarvie and Reid, 1999). The political symbolism
of the Commonwealth Games, wherein the participant nations are
traditionally all past territories of the British Empire, can thus be viewed as
resonant with the ‘internal colonialism’ narrative espoused by some
Scottish nationalists with regard to the United Kingdom. The existence of
an independent Scottish team at this event can be exploited as evidence of
Scotland’s ‘junior partner’ status within the Union as well as a symbolic
marker of its distinctiveness as a nation, thus acting in a Janus-faced
manner with regard to the validity of the claims of secessionist nationalists
(Black and Whigham, 2017).
This dualistic symbolism of sport with regard the advancement of
secessionist nationalism in Scotland during this period is also evident in
other examples. This argument is best captured in the comments of the
SNP’s former leader, Jim Sillars, after his defeat in the 1992 UK general
election, where he dubbed Scots as ‘90-minute patriots’ who failed to
translate their sporting nationalism into support for secessionist nationalist


politics (Jarvie and Walker, 1994; Kowalski, 2004). Such sentiments
illustrate the fact that, notwithstanding the above arguments regarding the
use of nationalist symbolism within the sporting domain, the general
consensus within academic analyses of this period is that Scottish sporting
nationalism did not correlate with political nationalism and, specifically,
support for the re-establishment of an independent Scottish state (Bairner,
1994; Jarvie, 1993, 2017; Jarvie and Walker, 1994).
Indeed, one of the myriad reasons why the expression of nationalism in
the domain of sport failed to translate into the support for political
nationalism lies in the traditional ethnoreligious and political divide
between the supporters of the two largest football clubs in Scotland,
Rangers and Celtic. During the twentieth century, the ‘Old Firm’ clubs
gradually captured a hegemonic position within Scottish club football, both
in terms of their sporting successes and the size of their respective fan
bases. However, the polarised nature of the ethnoreligious, political and
societal characteristics of the supporters of these two clubs, and the heated
rivalry between them, negated the possibility of football acting as a
unifying force with respect to secessionist nationalist sentiment. For
example, historically Rangers supporters have frequently been associated
with overt expressions of Protestantism, Orangeism, Conservativism and
unionism (in relation to both Scotland and Northern Ireland) (Bairner, 1994;
Bissett and McKillop, 2014; Flint and Kelly, 2013; Kowalski, 2004),
whereas Celtic supporters were more strongly associated with Irishness,
Catholicism and republicanism (Kelly, 2011; Flint and Kelly, 2013). While
this generalisation undoubtedly runs the risk of over-simplifying and
homogenising the more nuanced and varied nature of the two clubs’ fan
bases, it would be naïve to suggest that Scottish identity in the domain of
football and sport more generally was unified in any way, shape or form.
Despite the relative impotency of sport with regard to harnessing
secessionist nationalist sentiment throughout the twentieth century, events
in the political domain during the later decades of the twentieth century that
led to the re-establishment of a devolved Scottish Parliament in 1999 were
still frequently linked to sporting events and analogies. The aforementioned
‘democratic deficit’ in Scottish political representation was finally
redressed through the election of Tony Blair’s ‘New Labour’ government in
1997, additionally significant for Scottish politics as the party had
committed to a second devolution referendum following the unsuccessful


1979 referendum on the same question (Devine, 1999; Leith and Soule,
2011; Maclean, 2000). Indeed, with regard to the 1979 referendum, despite
the aforementioned fallacies regarding the impact of sport for securing
secessionist nationalist sentiment, the unsuccessful 1979 referendum was
speculated by some in the media and politics to have been at least in part
influenced by Scotland’s failure at the 1978 FIFA World Cup (Bairner,
1994; Jarvie, 1993; Jarvie and Walker, 1994).
However, in the intervening period between 1979 and the second
referendum on Scottish devolution in 1997, Scottish politics witnessed an
increase in what Leith and Soule (2011) have termed a ‘small “n” political
nationalism’, whereby a number of the traditionally unionist parties,
including Labour, the Liberal Democrats and the Scottish Green Party, and
the Scottish Trade Unions Congress coalesced around the idea of securing
devolved powers for Scotland within the United Kingdom. The resounding
success of the ‘Yes-Yes’ campaign in the 1997 devolution referendum was
thus attributed to the cross-party cooperation of all of the major political
parties in Scotland, except for the Conservatives who pursued an anti-
devolution campaign (Devine, 1999; Harvie, 1998). However, sporting
nationalist sentiment was again argued to have at the very least partially
contributed towards the success of the 1997 referendum by some nationalist
politicians, with the former SNP leader Alex Salmond suggesting that the
‘feel-good factor’ of Scotland’s qualification for the 1998 FIFA World Cup
Finals may have boosted the ‘Yes’ vote (Kowalski, 2004). The subsequent
(re)establishment of the Scottish Parliament in Holyrood, Edinburgh in
1999 thus marked an important constitutional milestone at the end of the
twentieth century; attention now turns to the era of post-devolution
Scotland to examine the interconnection between sport, politics and
secessionist nationalism in recent years.
Sport and secessionism in post-devolution Scotland
The early years of the new devolved Scottish Parliament appeared to have
quashed the progress of secessionist nationalist parties such as the SNP,
with the first two Holyrood elections in 1999 and 2003 witnessing the
election of two Labour-led coalition governments within the Parliament’s
proportional representation electoral system. However, the SNP’s decline at
the 2003 election marked a turning point, with the party making sufficient


gains at the 2007 election to become the largest party in the Scottish
Parliament, against a background of growing disenchantment with Labour-
led governments at both Holyrood at Westminster (Leith and Soule, 2011).
The SNP were forced to proceed as a minority government following the
2007 election; although this limited the ability of the SNP administration to
implement its 2007 manifesto policies, including a proposed independence
referendum, the formation of the first SNP government offered the party the
opportunity to demonstrate its ability to govern competently while
providing a forum for emphasising the benefits of Scottish independence
(Dardanelli and Mitchell, 2014; Johns et al., 2013; Larkin, 2011; Leith and
Soule, 2011).
At the 2011 elections, the SNP was able to further exploit dissatisfaction
with the Labour government following the global financial crisis of 2007–
2008, and the return of the Scottish ‘democratic deficit’ at Westminster with
the establishment of the coalition between the Conservatives and the
Liberal Democrats following the 2010 general election (Mycock, 2012).
The result of the 2011 Scottish Parliament elections placed the SNP in a
position to hold an independence referendum, with its 69 MSPs providing
the party with an overall majority. The SNP-led Scottish government
entered into negotiations with the coalition Westminster government,
resulting in the signing of the ‘Edinburgh Agreement’ in October 2012
which legislated for a single-question referendum in the autumn of 2014.
The preferred date for the referendum immediately sparked press
speculation over the reasons for selecting autumn 2014, with various
commentators highlighting the association with the 700th anniversary of the
Battle of Bannockburn in June 1314, and the hosting of a number of
sporting and cultural events in the 2014 ‘Year of Homecoming’, including
the Glasgow Commonwealth Games and the Ryder Cup (Carrell, 2013).
The timing of this historical event within the long advance of secessionist
nationalism within Scottish politics, with its close proximity to a number of
major sporting events in both Scotland and the UK, thus facilitates a critical
discussion of the relationship between sport and secessionist nationalism in
this important juncture in Scotland’s constitutional development.
The first such event which preceded the 2014 independence referendum
was the hosting of the 2012 Olympic Games in London. Given that the
Olympics is organised along the lines of nation-states and thus means an
integrated Great Britain representative team, London 2012 thus acted as an


opportunity for symbolically emphasising the united nature of ‘Team GB’
in sport, and the UK politically. For Boyle and Haynes (2014), the Games
‘revealed a temporary suspension in the pressing debate on Scottish
independence, with hegemonic Britishness and the symbolic flying of the
Union Jack more in evidence across the UK than had been witnessed in
recent decades’ (p. 91). This was particularly evident within the historical
and contemporary portrayal of Britain within the London 2012 Olympic
Ceremony directed by Danny Boyle, which was well-received, broadly
speaking. However, for some commentators the Ceremony
bore little relation to the social reality of the UK under the Coalition …
though Danny Boyle’s Britain is a myth, it remains a potent one. It was
what persuaded Scots to meekly hand over Scotland’s oil to the British
state, in a gesture of almost wilful altruism, in the 1960s and 1970s.
(Macwhirter, 2012: 34)
Despite the SNP’s position on the symbolism of London 2012, exemplified
by Alex Salmond’s attempts to distinguish the success of Scottish athletes
as ‘Scolympians’ rather than members of ‘Team GB’ (Ochman, 2013), it
can be argued that the overall success of the Games added succour to pro-
Union campaigners in terms of sport’s ability to counter secessionist
nationalist sentiment.
However, in contrast, the aforementioned hosting of the 2014
Commonwealth Games in Glasgow in much closer proximity to the
independence referendum created a counter-opportunity for the pro-
secession campaigners to draw upon the symbolism of sport to underpin
their own political positions. The potential exploitation of the 2014 Games
by the pro-independence ‘Yes’ campaign was thus pre-empted by pro-
Union campaigners who sought to de-politicise the event, such as the
intervention of Labour’s former First Minister Lord McConnell, who made
an appeal for a campaigning ‘truce’ during the period of the Games
(Whigham, 2017). On the whole, McConnell’s intervention achieved its
desired goal, with politicians across the political spectrum and
constitutional debate predominantly avoiding making overt statements
regarding the political importance of the 2014 Games for the forthcoming
independence referendum, thus neutering the potential for pro-secession


campaigners to harness the ‘feel-good factor’ from a successful Games for
political means (Jarvie, 2017; Whigham, 2017).
Nonetheless, this ‘truce’ during the 2014 Games period did not
completely preclude political framing of the event by pro-secession
campaigners. For the SNP, the Games were often used as an analogy for
broader discontentment with the constitutional status quo in other domains,
with the ‘democratic deficit’ of Scotland’s status within the Union used to
illustrate the negative impact on the economic benefits of the Games for
Scotland due to Westminster policy on Air Passenger Duty (APD) and the
loss of Value Added Tax (VAT) receipts to the UK Treasury (Whigham,
2017). For the SNP, the successful organisation of the Games acted as an
illustration of Scotland’s capacity for political self-governance, contributing
to a longer-term trend of growing confidence due to the perceived success
of the devolved Scottish Parliament as part of the party’s ‘gradualist’
movement towards political independence (Casanas Adam, 2014; Keating,
2012). The examples regarding APD and VAT are therefore used to
reinforce the SNP’s ‘public narrative’ of the constrained economic
circumstances of the status quo, with the need for additional fiscal powers
‘in Scottish hands’ to eradicate the ‘democratic deficit’ (Leith and Soule,
2011; Pittock, 2008b).
However, the SNP’s framing of the 2014 Games did not go unchallenged
by the pro-Union parties. For example, the Labour Party used the event to
reinforce its central narrative regarding the constitutional status quo as the
‘best of both worlds’, emphasising the importance of the economic and
logistical support from the UK government for the Games, as well as the
aforementioned dualistic symbolism of the event for co-existing
expressions of Britishness and Scottishness (Jarvie, 2017; Ochman, 2013).
Labour also used the Games to raise issues relating to the SNP’s domestic
policy shortcomings, thus creating a political counter-narrative which aimed
to undermine the SNP’s own attempts to illustrate its competence to govern
an independent Scotland (Dardanelli and Mitchell, 2014; Johns et al., 2013;
Larkin, 2011; Leith and Soule, 2011). Similarly, the Conservatives’
discourse on the Games placed a significant emphasis on the pro-Union
symbolism of the event through frequent references to ‘Team GB’ and the
UK sports system, the positive impact of London 2012 as a UK-wide event
(Ewen 2012, Jarvie, 2017), and support for the 2014 Games from the UK
government. This approach showed that the Conservatives appreciated that


events such as the Games could have both a unifying and a divisive effect
with regard to Scottish and British identities. In sum, therefore, the 2014
Games could be argued to have acted as something of a ‘zero-sum game’
with regard to its impact on support for secessionist nationalist sentiment in
the lead up to the 2014 independence referendum, with the event arguably
amplifying the predilections of voters on either side of the constitutional
debate rather than persuading undecided voters to align with either pro-
secession or pro-Union positions.
Outside of the two major sporting events of London 2012 and Glasgow
2014, sport has been embroiled in the ongoing constitutional debates in
Scotland in other manners. For example, the political positions and
endorsements of sporting personalities were frequently courted by
campaigners on both sides of the constitutional divide. The pro-Union
‘Better Together’ campaign was more successful in securing political
endorsements, citing support from a range of personalities from football
(Crichton, 2014), rugby (Whitaker, 2014) and other popular sports.
Tellingly, however, the vast majority of these endorsements came from
retired Scottish athletes or international representatives, demonstrating the
risks for current sporting competitors of making overt political
interventions. These risks were illustrated in the opprobrium directed
towards athletes such as 800 m runner Lynsey Sharp following her
expressions of concern regarding the implications of a ‘Yes’ vote for the
levels of funding and sporting infrastructure available in an independent
Scotland in comparison to the existing UK-wide arrangements (BBC,
2014), and cyclist Sir Chris Hoy, Scotland’s most-decorated Olympian,
following his comments that Scottish athletes might face challenges in
terms of competing at Olympic level which were quickly framed as a tacit
support for the pro-Union campaign despite Hoy’s objections (Roden,
2013).
Pro-secession campaigners found sporting endorsements harder to come
by, despite their overt attempts to acquire them through the creation of the
‘Sport for Yes’ campaign group which only succeeded in gaining
endorsements from relatively minor Scottish sporting figures (Whigham
and May, 2017). However, the last-minute endorsement of a ‘Yes’ vote
from arguably Scotland’s most successful sportsperson at the time of the
referendum, tennis player Sir Andy Murray, acted as a significant coup for
secessionist nationalist campaigners. The ‘Yes Scotland’ campaign group


reacted to these comments by circulating an official press release,
harnessing the comments to further boost the media coverage of Murray’s
comments and arguing that ‘Scotland’s leading sportsman Andy Murray
today served a major last-minute boost for the independence campaign by
declaring for Yes’ (Yes Scotland, 2014). This intervention witnessed a
similar level of opprobrium towards Murray from pro-Union campaigners
and social media users. Indeed, Murray later expressed regret about the
manner of his comments on the referendum being released via social media,
while equally defending his right to express his political views and standing
by his support for a ‘Yes’ vote (McLeman, 2016).
Conclusion
In conclusion, sport and secessionist nationalism can be argued to be
uncomfortable bedfellows within the Scottish context, given the fact that
the distinctiveness of Scotland’s independent sporting representatives have
succeeded in producing sporting nationalist sentiment alone, with a mixed
degree of transfer of this sentiment from the sporting to the political
domain. As outlined above, the anachronist existence of independent
Scottish representative teams within the international sporting system
undoubtedly possesses symbolic potential for reinforcing a sense of
Scotland’s nationhood as distinct from the UK and its other constituent
‘home nations’; however, this symbolism is not easily harnessed by pro-
secession politicians to advance their political causes.
Indeed, as the support for secessionist political movements has gradually
increased across time to the present state of affairs at the time of writing –
with the SNP currently campaigning for a second independence referendum
in 2020 in light of the UK-wide constitutional turmoil caused by the 2016
referendum on the UK’s membership of the EU which led to the ‘Leave’
vote – it can be argued that support for Scotland’s national representatives
in football, rugby and other popular sports has declined significantly. This
illustrates that any attempts to simplistically conflate sporting and political
nationalism in the Scottish context is highly problematic, given the various
contradictory symbolic constructions of identity in Scottish sport, evidenced
in the dualistic symbolism of events like the Olympic and Commonwealth
Games and the polarised ethnoreligious identities of the nation’s two largest
football clubs, Celtic and Rangers.


It can therefore be surmised that as the level of political engagement in
Scotland has been enhanced due to the various constitutional debates which
have been presented for consideration to the Scottish electorate in recent
years, sporting issues and identities are rightly relegated to the background
for most voters in comparison to more pressing issues such as economic,
societal, ideological and environmental factors, among others. That is not to
say that sport does or should remain an apolitical domain within the
Scottish context; instead, the central argument here is that sporting issues do
carry symbolic weight in relation to the politics of secessionist nationalism
and unionism, but that the dualistic symbolism of sport renders it a ‘zero-
sum game’ in terms of its impact on constitutional matters. Nonetheless,
sporting issues and personalities will undoubtedly continue to become
embroiled in the various unresolved constitutional debates for Scotland
which appear likely to fester over the near future; it therefore remains to be
seen how the interconnection between sport and secessionist nationalism
evolves further during this tumultuous period for Scottish politics and
society.
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Chapter 3
Speaking for Wales
Sport and secessionism in a small nation
John Harris
Introduction
Almost fifty years ago Raymond Williams (1971/2003, p. 3) asked ‘Who
speaks for Wales? Nobody. That is both the problem and the
encouragement’. This chapter looks at the positioning of Wales and
considers both the problem and the encouragement of international sport.
Wales is a nation that competes against other nations in sports such as
football and rugby union. It is also part of the wider collectives of Great
Britain and the United Kingdom so Welsh athletes compete for Team GB in
the Olympic and Paralympic Games. In cricket, many of the leading Welsh
players would hope to play for a team named England. Sport then, like
many other spheres, reflects the complex and multi-layered identities of
citizens in the British state. The continuous struggle to articulate and
promote a separate Welsh identity is captured well by the following quote:
‘For Wales – see England’. This notorious directive in the early
editions of the Encyclopedia Britannica crystallizes all the emotion, the
humiliation, and the patronising indifference which helped to launch
the national movement in Wales.
(Morgan, 1971, p. 153)


EnglandandWales is a term still often used today as if it is referring to a
single place. This domination means that many Welsh people have felt a
conscious need to affirm their own separate national identity ‘in the face of
what is perceived to be the continual threat of cultural genocide’ (Bowie,
1993, p. 169). This place of course is never referred to as
WalesandEngland, a point which clearly emphasises the hegemony of one
nation over the other.
Whilst space does not allow an exhaustive overview of the history of this
coupling a few key points are important to note to help set the scene for the
discussion that follows in this chapter. The descriptor of a people as Welsh
is said to derive from the word ‘wealh’ (foreigner). Wales is an English
name for the land of foreigners and came into existence in the ninth and
tenth centuries ‘as a junior partner in a Britain run by England’ (R.
Williams, 1985/2003, p. 67). It has of course been noted that if viewed in
this way the Welsh are foreigners in their own land. The fact that Wales had
never been a unitary kingdom meant that its union with England, formalised
during the Tudor period, made the integration of the two a smoother process
than the subsequent union with Scotland at the beginning of the 1700s.
Most of the key decisions about Wales were made in the capital city of
England but Wales finally secured its own assembly government towards
the end of the last millennium as part of the devolution of power from
London to other parts of the United Kingdom.
In the twenty-first century there has been a great deal of focus given to
the possible break-up of Britain. A referendum on Scottish independence in
2014 (see Whigham’s chapter in this collection) was positioned as being a
once-in-a-generation event but the prospect of another vote looms. The
subsequent decision by the United Kingdom in 2016 to leave the European
Union (Brexit) resulted in much uncertainty and debate about the position
of the constituent nations going forward. Although there is support for
separatism, there is not as strong a lobby for independence in Wales as there
currently is in Scotland. The union between Wales and England dates back
hundreds of years and Evans (2019, p. 168) provides a succinct overview of
this coupling:
Since the 1536 Act of Union, whereby Wales was politically and
legally incorporated into England (reflected in the enduring ‘England
and Wales’ legal jurisdiction), Wales has historically been far more


closely assimilated into the English state than either Scotland or
Northern Ireland. It has never had the unifying political resources of a
distinct national civil society, press, an educational system or military,
to bind it together.
Some believe that Wales may be viewed as an internal colony (e.g. Hechter,
1975). Others have suggested that a better way of describing Wales would
be as a dependent periphery (Evans, 1991). Williams (1983/2003) noted
that whilst it could be said that the Welsh people had been oppressed by the
English state for seven centuries, the English people have been oppressed
by the English state for even longer.
Wales has its own language but according to the 2011 census only a fifth
of the population speaks any Welsh. Representatives of the national teams
in most sports are a combination of Welsh and English speakers. The
debates around language are linked closely to discussions of secessionism
put forward by the social-democratic political party Plaid Cymru (Party of
Wales).
In this chapter, I will look at the interplay of sport and politics in relation
to discussions of secessionism and consider the ways in which Wales is
(re)positioned in international sport. After a brief overview of sport in
Wales, the focus then moves to look specifically at the importance of rugby
union in relation to Welsh national identity. It then develops this discussion
in relation to contemporary major sporting events with a focus on the
Rugby World Cup. I then consider the positioning of other sports in Wales
such as football and cricket before bringing the key points together in the
conclusion. Before moving on to look at some specific cases where Wales is
present (and absent) in international sport, the next section outlines how the
work of Raymond Williams informs the discussion presented in this
chapter.
Theoretical framework
In this chapter I use the work of Raymond Williams as a lens to look at the
topic of secessionism. Williams, who grew up in the small Welsh village of
Pandy close to the English border, was an academic and leading cultural
theorist whose work transcended traditional disciplinary boundaries. He
began as an Adult Education tutor in Sussex and at the time of his


retirement was Professor of Drama at Cambridge University. Yet beyond
this, Williams wrote about Wales in his novels (e.g. Williams, 1960) that
explored the workings of a border country that had been the site of political
and military struggle for centuries (see also, Smith, 2008; Williams, 2003).
Williams (1985/2003, p. 67) was to reflect upon the advantages of being
born and bred in this environment with its plethora of official identities:
Wales and Monmouthshire, as it was for me at school, with special
force since we lived in the appendage. England-and-Wales: that
administrative, legal and even weather-forecasting area. Wales for
rugby but All-England for cricket. Welsh Wales and English Wales.
Wales and Cymru.
He also noted that whilst it was a nightmare for anyone looking for an
official status it was a blessing ‘to anyone trying to think about
communities and societies’ (Williams, 1985/2003, p. 67). It was his
experiences growing up in Pandy that he integrated into his writing on a
host of topics both in his academic work and in his novels. This may seem
like an unnecessary statement to make but is worth noting for even now
students/academics may still be told to write in the third person and not
acknowledge subjective positioning. This seems like a strange point to
make here for we can only see the world from our own place within it. In
speaking my position as the author of this chapter, I was born in south
Wales and spent most of my childhood living there. Much of my adult life
has been spent living and working in England, the USA and Scotland. I do
not claim to speak for all of Wales but note my own location here in trying
to better understand the issues that relate to the topics discussed in this
chapter.
As a student at King Henry VIII Grammar School in Abergavenny,
Williams played rugby for the first XV. Although noting his enthusiasm for
watching televised sport, commenting that it was ‘one of the very best
things about television’ (Williams, 1968), like other key scholars whose
endeavours helped provide the groundwork of what we now commonly see
referred to as cultural studies, his work did not encompass the study of sport
although occasional passing references to it are evident in observations such
as the following discussion of Welsh culture:


When we hear the word ‘culture’, some of us reach for our fancy dress.
Real life is home, family and a job; wages and prices; politics and
crisis. Culture, then, is for high days and holidays: not an ordinary gear
but an overdrive. So if you say ‘Welsh culture’ what do you think of?
Of bara brith and the Eisteddfod? Of choirs and Cardiff Arms Park? Of
love spoons and englynion? Of the national costume and the rampant
red dragon?
(Williams, 1975/2003, p. 5)
Here then it is the stadium where the Welsh national team played its rugby
matches, Cardiff Arms Park, that is one of the things identified as what
most may associate with the words ‘Welsh culture’. The Arms Park, a name
that was often used when referring to the national stadium, stands alongside
the ultra-modern Principality Stadium (formerly the Millennium Stadium)
which now dominates the skyline of Cardiff. The rugby ground at the centre
of the capital city of Cardiff is perhaps one of the most famous places in the
whole of the rugby-playing world. I will return to discuss the importance of
the development of the new stadium at the same time as the formation of
the National Assembly for Wales later in this chapter. Before looking
specifically at the role of rugby union, the next section will briefly outline
the broader significance of sport in Wales.
Sport in Wales
As noted at the beginning of this chapter, sport in Wales takes many forms
and representing your country on the international sporting stage can mean
different things. Sport can provide a particularly important site for the
promotion of national identities for stateless nations such as Wales (Harris,
2015). Sport Wales is responsible for the distribution of monies from both
the national lottery and the Welsh government and views its role as using
sport to ‘shape Wales’ culture, identity and international profile’ (Sport
Wales, 2012, p. 22). Sport Wales (2012, p. 22) further notes that ‘We see
sport as more than just a part of Wales’ cultural fabric. Sport defines us as a
nation’. This powerful statement gives some indication of the importance of
sport in contemporary Wales and highlights the wider role that it plays in an
international context.


Football is widely considered to be the most popular team sport in the
world (Giulianotti and Robertson, 2009). Wales has only qualified for the
men’s World Cup Finals on one occasion, in 1958, when they were knocked
out by Brazil who went on to win the trophy. After a number of near misses
in World Cup qualifying campaigns, Wales made it to the finals of the
European Championships in 2016. With talisman Gareth Bale, who had
won the Champions League with Real Madrid, leading the way, Wales
progressed to the semi-finals of the tournament, and in November 2019
secured qualification for the 2020 European Championships. Bale had
attended the same high school in Cardiff as the Wales and British & Irish
Lions rugby captain Sam Warburton and Team GB cyclist and Tour de
France winner Geraint Thomas. Each of these men had succeeded at the
very highest level of their respective sports, but the representative honours
they received and the different teams they have represented highlights the
‘fuzzy frontiers’ (Cohen, 1995) of national identities in Welsh and British
sport.
It is not only men who help to define Wales as a sporting nation. In 2012,
Jade Jones won an Olympic gold medal in taekwondo and celebrated by
running around the arena carrying both the Union Jack and the Flag of
Wales. It is often pointed out that Wales is not represented on the Union
Flag but Welsh women who have won gold medals for Team GB (e.g. Tanni
Grey-Thompson and Nicole Cooke) would have watched as the Union Jack
was raised to the sounds of God Save the Queen. This anthem was also
played before Wales rugby union internationals for many years, although
now it is Hen Wlad fy Nhadau that is sung with great gusto ahead of such
matches. Of all the sports that Wales competes in, rugby is the one game
that stands apart as an activity that has long provided a means not only for
the Welsh to define themselves but for others to define them (see Holt,
1990).
The importance of rugby union to Welsh identity
The historian Gwyn A. Williams (1985) wrote about how rugby was both
Welsh national and British imperial. Here it was observed that rugby was
‘the only field where it was possible to be simultaneously Welsh and a
gentleman (normally a difficult undertaking), where doctor and lawyer
could ruck happily shoulder-to-shoulder with miner’ (Williams, 1985, p.


221). Mackay (2010) uses rugby as the focus for the first chapter of his
book Understanding Contemporary Wales. Rugby is important as it
‘continues to be prominent in representations of Wales and as a focus for
identification with the nation’ (Mackay, 2010, p. 21).
Without wishing to over-simplify, or indeed over-state the importance of
the sport, it was through rugby that Wales was able to be an equal, if not the
better, of its bigger neighbour in a way that was not always available in
other spheres. Williams (1983/2003) captured this well with his descriptor
of ‘the Welsh rugby team, outrucking Chamberlain and Hoare and Halifax
and the young toffs they’d persuaded to stand in for them’ (p. 17). These
three figures were not English rugby players but members of the
establishment, the bourgeoisie English.
The open professionalisation of rugby union in the mid-1990s meant that
the sport underwent a period of considerable change. The most significant
change within Wales was the creation of regional teams resulting in the
demise of many famous club sides. Another change that many predicted
would be negatively impacted by professionalism was the British and Irish
Lions touring team. Yet rather than disappear as a result of professionalism,
the Lions have survived and developed as a brand. They have often
comprised a strong Welsh core and retain an important place in the
international rugby landscape (Harris, 2010). Two players from Wales
(James Davies and Sam Cross) represented Great Britain & Northern
Ireland (GB&NI) in the men’s rugby sevens team when the sport debuted at
the Rio 2016 Olympic Games. The Welsh winger Jasmine Joyce was the
only player from outside England to be part of the women’s team at the
same event.
This ‘imagined community’ (Anderson, 1983) of a nation through the
medium of sport is clearly one that has a popular appeal. The identities we
see given prominence, including those framed in national terms, are not
merely invented but are part of what we might recognise as belonging to a
‘selective tradition’ (Williams, 1961). Nations, and the continual making
and remaking of national identity through sport, can change over time (see
Bairner, 2009; Carroll and Bairner, 2019; Harris and Vincent, 2015). G.A.
Williams (1985, p. 304) noted that ‘Wales is an artefact’ and that the Welsh
as a people have lived by making and remaking themselves ‘usually within
a British context’ (p. 304). It is important to state that although these
national identities might be imagined this does not mean that they are


imaginary (Bairner, 2009). National identities take many forms. Meanings
are always produced they are never simply expressed. It is in trying to
better understand aspects of this production that this chapter now turns to
look at the role of Wales as a host nation for major sporting events.
Major sporting events and national identities
Bidding for, and hosting, major international sporting events has become a
key part of the policies and strategies of politicians and various other
stakeholders across the globe. Cities and nations now compete for the rights
to stage the biggest of these with the FIFA Football World Cup (Men’s) and
the Summer Olympic Games being by far the two most prized mega-events
to host (Zimbalist, 2015). Just below these two mega ‘megas’, there is
generally less competition to host the next group of events, but many of
these are still sought after as a badge of honour that bestows upon its hosts
the pride and prestige associated with staging them. Although we have
known for some time that the bidding process for the majority of these
events is positioned on a very shaky platform of under-estimated costs and
over-estimated benefits (Whitson and Horne, 2006), there continues to be a
strong desire to host such events.
For a number of nations, like Wales, who do not have the land mass,
population size or economy to bid for the biggest two events mentioned
above, then, the Rugby World Cup is in effect the largest sporting event it
could ever host if we were to accept its claim to be the third biggest
sporting event in the world (see Harris, 2010; Harris and Wise, 2019). There
is something of a contested landscape here as other events like the Ryder
Cup, staged at the Celtic Manor resort near Newport in 2010, also lay claim
to this title (Harris, 2015, 2018). There is still no real consensus as to who
can legitimately claim this particular title but the fact that it is such a
contested term makes it an attractive banner to use and although vested
stakeholders might not be able to definitively prove they are part of the
third biggest event it is also tricky to prove that it is not.
There is no denying that in the two decades since devolution Wales has
developed a much stronger profile within international sport more broadly
and that Cardiff has acquired a reputation as a city that can do an excellent
job of staging major sporting events (Harris, 2015, 2017). The impressive
stadium at the heart of the city with its retractable roof has been used for a


whole host of different sports and staged the prestigious UEFA Champions
League final in 2017. Yet it would be wrong to state that this is directly
linked to devolution, although the focus on major events as a driver for
wider development is important to note (see Welsh Assembly Government,
2008). In most cases it is not the macro-political landscape, but the politics
of sport (politics with a small ‘p’) that determines hosting opportunities.
The Rugby World Cup (RWC) provides an interesting case to consider here.
The RWC first took place in 1987. This late entry into the major events
calendar can be explained, in part, by the fact that rugby union did not
become an openly professional sport until 1995. From the inaugural event
hosted by Australia and New Zealand in 1987 the RWC has developed
exponentially 
as 
the 
wider 
increased 
commercialisation 
and
commodification of elite sport has dramatically changed the landscape of
events. Wales hosted some matches of the 1991 event and were designated
as hosts in 1999.
The building of the Millennium Stadium (supported by lottery funding
from the Millennium Commission) was viewed by many as a symbol of a
modern and vibrant nation (see Harris, 2015, 2017; Holden, 2011; Williams,
2000). Holden (2011) suggests that the opening of the Millennium Stadium
was evidence of Wales branding itself ‘as a nation of sport, not one entirely
based on rugby union’ (p. 278). The physical significance of the stadium is
clearly highlighted in the following extract from the novel Cardiff Dead:
The old stadium, the Arms Park, was almost invisible from the centre
of town. You were only really aware of it when you looked at it from
over the river in Riverside. The new stadium dominated the centre and
you could see it from almost anywhere in Cardiff. And, like pretty
much everyone else, Tyra found it surprisingly inspiring. It suddenly
made you aware that Cardiff was changing, that all the bollocks you
heard people spit on the TV about being a European capital for the new
century was really true.
(Williams, 2000, p. 231)
Whilst largely considered to be a success in terms of showcasing Wales and
promoting the city of Cardiff (despite the fact that the host nation lost to
Samoa again as they had at the 1991 RWC), the tournament did not bring
the economic returns that were predicted (see Jones, 2001).


The 2015 RWC was hosted by England, although Cardiff also featured in
the Rugby Football Union’s bid for this event and was to be chosen as one
of the host cities. This type of decision in international rugby is not that
unusual, for although Wales had hosted the 1999 RWC, only one fifth of all
matches actually took place in the country. As Cardiff had also hosted
matches in the 1991 (UK) and 2007 (France) tournaments, it has been a
host city for every RWC ever staged in the northern hemisphere. The Visit
England promotional campaign for the 2015 RWC used the words of the
hymn Jerusalem to highlight images of ‘England’s green and pleasant land’.
Jerusalem has been put forward as a potential anthem for England’s
sporting teams who mostly still use God Save the Queen. This, of course, is
also the British national anthem and in London 2012 the Welsh players in
the GB&NI football team did not join in the singing of the anthem (see
Harris and Vincent, 2015).
In being a part of England 2015, Cardiff was a city hosting part of a
major international sporting event in a country of which it is not a part. At
face value many may be of the opinion that there is little wrong with this in
that Cardiff (and by extension Wales?) would share in the prestige of
hosting this event and the predicted economic benefits that such an event
promises to deliver. Yet whilst this is undoubtedly in some ways a good
thing, it also neglects the complex dynamics of having a city outside the
national borders of the host nation involved in an event that is being used to
promote England and tourism to England.
Whilst I have commented on and tried to explain the joined up
EnglandandWales in an earlier section of this chapter, it could be that we
can learn more from looking at a new configuration of EnglandandCardiff
in contemporary times (see also, Harris, 2015, 2017). There was no real
rationale for including Cardiff as part of England 2015 as there were many
large football stadia in England capable of staging these matches. Yet to
secure support in the voting for such events there is often a great deal of
negotiation that takes place and the governing bodies of rugby in Wales and
England have worked together many times. WalesandEngland is a strong
coupling as the announcement in 2015 that Cardiff, Bristol and Newport
will work together to form the Great Western Cities alliance highlights.
Cardiff was also admitted to the Core Cities Group in 2014, a collective of
self-selected cities outside of Greater London, formed to promote the role


of cities in driving economic growth. Cardiff and Glasgow are the only
cities in this group of ten who are not located in England.
London 2012 was cited as a good example of the collective strength of
the United Kingdom. Yet whilst the Olympic and Paralympic Games were
events where the constituent parts were competing as part of a wider
collective of Great Britain & Northern Ireland (or Team GB in
contemporary terminology), the RWC was titled England 2015 so having a
Welsh city as part of this confuses the issue as to where Cardiff is and who
Wales are. This is not a new problem though, for, as Barlow (2005)
highlights, Wales has been variously understood as a ‘region’,
‘principality’, ‘western extension of England’ and ‘national region’ (p.
201). He goes on to suggest that having never been an entirely separate
entity or a fully integrated one, confusion or denial about its status ‘has had
obvious and far-reaching ramifications’ (Barlow, 2005, p. 201). Johnes
(2012) notes how the conquest of Wales by England preceded the
urbanisation of Cardiff and the surrounding areas, so by the time urban
areas began to emerge in Wales ‘London was already well established as the
centre of political power for the Welsh’ (p. 510).
Two of the matches which took place in Cardiff during England 2015
featured the ‘home’ team as Wales took on Fiji and Uruguay in the
Millennium Stadium. The two other teams in this so-called ‘group of
death’, where only the winner and runner-up proceeded to the knockout
stages, faced the Welsh at Twickenham, London – home of the England
rugby team. Twickenham was the venue for England versus Wales and
Wales versus Australia despite a tongue-in-cheek bid by the Welsh Rugby
Union to stage the England versus Wales match at the Millennium Stadium.
This, like the game against Australia, evidences the collective power
exerted by those at the core of international rugby governance whereas
those on the periphery such as Fiji and Uruguay are not afforded the same
consideration (see Harris, 2010; Harris and Wise, 2019). Wales may be on
the periphery in many discussions of globalisation, but in the rugby-playing
world they are very much part of the core and continue to wield
considerable influence in the sport. I will now briefly look at some related
issues in the wider landscape of international sport and some of the
challenges relating to the place of Wales in relation to English and British
identities.


It’s (not) just cricket: the complexities of national
identities
Cricket is often thought of as a quintessentially English game (see
Malcolm, 2009; Wagg, 2007). In addition to the 2015 RWC case discussed
above, Cardiff hosted an England team on another occasion in that year
when it staged an international test cricket match between England and
Australia. Four years later and Cardiff was also one of the venues for
matches as England won the men’s Cricket World Cup for the first time in
2019. The team was captained by an Irish man who had previously
represented Ireland. Its star players were an all-rounder born in New
Zealand and a fast bowler born in Barbados who had become eligible for
England just before the tournament began. Under the auspices of the
England and Wales Cricket Board (ECB) there has been an increased Welsh
influence at the elite level in the past two decades (see Holden, 2011). The
missing ‘W’ in the abbreviation above is perhaps more noticeable now.
Unlike the 2015 Rugby World Cup, Wales was included in the title of the
tournament which was marketed as England & Wales 2019. Playing for a
team called England represents the pinnacle for Welsh cricketers. Yet this is
not universally accepted. In 2017, the then First Minister for Wales, Carwyn
Jones, stated that Wales should have its own one-day international cricket
team and noted that it was odd to see Ireland and Scotland playing this form
of cricket whilst Wales were not.
A number of red postboxes were painted gold in honour of those British
athletes who won gold medals at the London 2012 Olympic and Paralympic
Games. This included one for Jade Jones in Flint and one for Geraint
Thomas in Cardiff. Shortly after the success of the England cricket team in
2019, the traditional red postboxes in cities that had staged test matches
were painted white to celebrate the victories of the England men’s team in
2019 and the England women’s team in 2017. This was not universally
welcomed in Cardiff where Yes cymru (a group promoting independence for
Wales) stickers were soon plastered all over the postbox. This reflects the
tensions around Cardiff’s increasing prominence in major English/British
sporting events where it is both present and absent (see Harris, 2017).
Cardiff City and Swansea City both currently compete in the second tier
of the English football pyramid. Cardiff won the FA Cup at Wembley
Stadium, the home of English football, in 1927. A little over seventy years


later and the capital city of Wales staged FA Cup finals as Wembley was
redeveloped. During this time the Millennium Stadium also hosted Football
League play-off finals and became, de facto, the temporary home of English
football. There has long been opposition to the unique position of the four
UK associations within the Federation Internationale de Football
Association (FIFA). The controversy around the formation of the League of
Wales in the early 1990s and the decision of some clubs to remain in the
English semi-professional pyramid structure visibly highlighted some of
these tensions (see Duke and Crolley, 1996). For many years the threat of
losing independent status was one of the reasons why the idea of a UK team
for football at the Olympic Games was resisted by some of the national
associations including the Football Association of Wales.
For the Olympic and Paralympic Games in Britain’s biggest city, London
2012 was conceived and promoted as a ‘British’ games (see Coe, 2012).
The first competition of this event took place in Cardiff as the Millennium
Stadium was chosen as the venue for the women’s football match between
GB&NI and New Zealand two days before the opening ceremony itself in
London. There was initially much scepticism and negativity surrounding
London 2012 with some disquiet expressed over the so-called ‘Plastic Brits’
(athletes born outside of GB&NI) who had been chosen for the team. The
success of Team GB meant that the games were widely celebrated as a great
success and a reaffirmation of British identity (see Harris and Vincent,
2015).
Yet despite the successes of London 2012 many commentators wanted to
highlight the strength of a particular nation or region within the wider
collective. Some pointed out where the country of Yorkshire would sit in
the London 2012 medal table if it was an independent country. Similar
claims were made about the achievements of Scottish athletes although both
of these skirted over the fact that a number of these medals were won in
team events where the majority of the team were from a region or nation
outside those staking the claim. There was an element of this in the
coverage of the Olympic Games within the Western Mail, the self-styled
national newspaper of Wales (Harris and Vincent, 2015), although the main
focus within the newspaper was on celebrating the broader success of Team
GB.


Concluding remarks
During a time of considerable anxiety and uncertainty, there has been much
talk about the possible break-up of the United Kingdom. With ongoing
debates around Scottish independence and the significance of the Irish
border in discussions of Brexit, then Wales is the nation mentioned least in
any discussion. In overall percentage terms the people of Wales, like
England, voted to leave the European Union (EU), although many
nationalists still see the future of Wales as an independent nation within the
EU. Discussions of national identities in a British context highlight the
‘fuzzy frontiers’ (Cohen, 1995) of Britishness that often mean that and
England are used interchangeably. The tensions that surround the
relationship between Wales and England resurface in many spheres
including sport.
There was remarkably little commentary about having the capital city of
Wales as part of a tournament promoted as England 2015. This perhaps
reflects the continued hegemony of England over Wales and muddies the
water for those who may sometimes find themselves having to explain that
Wales is a distinct and separate country to England (this was certainly my
experience when living in the USA). Scholars in tourism have long
highlighted the difficulties in identifying and marketing Wales as a distinct
and separate entity (e.g. Pitchford, 1998). Visit Wales, and its partners, have
worked hard to better position the nation in a range of international tourism
markets. The hosting of the Ryder Cup in 2010 offered a ‘once in a lifetime
opportunity’ to promote golf in Wales where one of the things it was most
firmly positioned against was the corporateness of England (see Harris,
2018). This seemed somewhat problematic in an event that often takes
place in a luxury hotel resort, but in 2015 it was the corporateness of rugby
union that was central to having Cardiff as a host city for England 2015.
The image of rugby as a classless game lends itself well to a narrative that
is often being used to (re)position Wales as different to England but such a
discourse 
does 
not 
match 
the 
activities 
where 
the 
increased
commercialisation and commodification of elite professional sport means
that ticket prices continue to rise. Wales versus England is still an important
event in rugby union. Wales and England are connected by the border that
runs along the length of Wales. Raymond Williams grew up in that border


country and his formative experiences here shaped his work as one of the
foremost cultural analysts of his time.
In his powerful treatise of contemporary Wales, Brooks (2017, p. 144)
notes that today ‘the Welsh live at a time of real crisis’ and suggests that we
face an uncertain future. There are similarities here with the words some
three decades earlier of Gwyn A. Williams (1985, p. 305) who ended his
important historical account by describing his fellow Welsh men and
women as ‘nothing but a naked people under an acid rain’. To return to the
quotation that was used at the start of this chapter, it is important to note
that Raymond Williams (1971/2003) believed that everybody should speak
and have the right to speak – this was the encouragement. The problem he
identified was the acute economic, political and cultural strains ‘in a world
of crude power relationships and distant parliaments’ (Williams, 1971/2003,
p. 3). For many people in Wales that power base may have shifted (a little)
from London to Cardiff but a number of the same challenges remain.
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Chapter 4
A game of lions and devils
Sport as a driver and inhibitor of Flemish
secession
Arnout Geeraert, Edith Drieskens and Bart
Maddens
Introduction
One does not have to be a sport fan or a Flemish nationalist to know that the
western provinces of Flanders become a sea of yellow every spring, when
thousands of cycling fans carrying Flemish flags (called the ‘Flemish Lion’
or ‘Lion flag’) line the roads during the Flanders Classics. Without doubt,
the Ronde van Vlaanderen (Tour of Flanders) appeals most to one’s
imagination here. Created in 1913, to boost the sales of a pro-Flemish
newspaper, this race has had a strong regionalist imprint, as it was to fill
Flemish people with pride of their region. These efforts have been
successful: the race has become “one of the most distinctive celebrations of
a regional sporting culture in Europe” (Roberts 2015, p. 1).
From the outset, lyrical news reports about Flemish cyclists promoted
Flemish identity in an intentional, yet seemingly innocuous manner,
illustrating that sport can be indeed “a powerful signifier of identity”
(Houlihan 1997, p. 135). The ‘Flandriens’ – a term originally reserved for
cyclists from East and West Flanders who participated in the race – have
played a crucial role in this regard. In their conquest of cobbled hills and


roads, whatever the weather, but always relying on perseverance and brute
force, they have personified, even mystified, the struggle for Flemish
emancipation: “[p]robably more than any poet or writer, they conquered the
body and soul of the population at large and provided a muscular answer to
the widespread feeling of cultural repression by a long-time hegemonic
Francophone Belgian State” (Renson 1998a, p. 126). As such, sport, and
cycling in particular, has been “a prime mover for Flemish emancipation”
(Renson 1998b, own translation).
This knowledge, combined with the observation that multiple
illustrations can be found on the European continent of how sport is used as
a political instrument, both for the “celebration” and “promotion” of
regional identity (Roberts 2015, p. 4), makes it seem only logical that the
two Flemish separatist political parties also use sport, and cycling in
particular, as a political resource. As such, the promotional video ads that
were used in the context of the May 2019 election are hardly surprising.
Nieuw-Vlaamse Alliantie (New Flemish Alliance, N-VA) presented itself as
a team that cycles with determination and perseverance in the service of
“Vlaanderen” (Flanders) and “vooruitgang” (progress) (N-VA 2019). Real
progress, meaning more jobs, higher wages and more security, so the
viewer learns in the ad, requires change. In a similar vein, though opting for
a caricatural approach, Vlaams Belang (Flemish Interest) showed a puffing
cyclist in a yellow jersey with a Flemish Lion print. A fat and lazy Walloon
sitting on his luggage carrier, he is surpassed by cyclists of neighbouring
countries. Vlaams Belang leader Tom Van Grieken states in a voiceover that
Belgium does not progress, even though Flemish people work hard. All
“ballast” should be removed in order to remedy the situation, hence that
Flemish resources should no longer go to Walloons or immigrants (Vlaams
Belang 2019).
In the past, however, both N-VA and Vlaams Belang opposed the
intertwining of politics and sport within a Belgian context. These parties
have faced a paradoxical situation (Maddens 2017). While separatist parties
are increasingly popular in Flanders, separatism is not. Parties like N-VA
and Vlaams Belang obtain an increasingly large share of the vote, but only a
small percentage of the voters is actually separatist. The strong popular
support for national sporting teams seems to illustrate this “Flemish
Paradox” (Maddens 2017, p. 55). This is particularly so for the national
football team, who came home to a sea of red when an estimated 40,000


fans lined the streets of Brussels and filled the Grand-Place to celebrate the
“Red Devils’ ” third place in the 2018 World Cup. The apparent ease with
which yellow Flemish flags are exchanged for Belgian tricolour ones seems
to confirm that sport is “an extremely unstable cultural source” and the
symbolism of events is often intense but short-lived (Houlihan 1997, p.
135). Yet, this rule does not seem to apply to the Red Devils. The team is
consistently cited as one of the few institutions left along which a Belgian
identity can be created and sustained, especially since it has become more
successful in recent years (Swenden and Jans 2006, Tolleneer 1997).
Commentators, marketeers, but also the players have cultivated what has
become a symbiotic relationship and emphasise the unity of the
multicultural Red Devils (Belga 2018, Martin 2017, Mudde 2014).
The contrasting images of Flemish and Belgian flags reveal a tension, as
sport events serve as vehicles for expressing both Flemish and Belgian
identity. This chapter shows that sport is consequently instrumentalised for
both separatist and unionist purposes in the case of Belgium. More
specifically, this chapter explores how Flemish separatist and Belgian
unionist forces manifest themselves in relation to sport. It does so by
identifying the relevant actors and the institutional context in which these
actors operate. This exercise allows for an appraisal of the role of sport in
Flemish secession efforts. Setting the scene, the first section discusses the
government and sport structure so as to define the limitations and
opportunities surrounding the instrumentalisation of sport. The second
section analyses how sport has been used to create a sharper sense of both
national and regional identity. The conclusion summarises the main
findings and explores the way forward.
Historical and institutional background
In this chapter, we show that one has to understand the functioning of
Belgium as a federal state and thus as a system of multi-level governance in
order to understand the interrelationship between sport and secession within
the country. In fact, the ads discussed above alluded to the very same thing,
i.e. a desire for more powers, thus autonomy, for Flanders, though N-VA
and Vlaams Belang have different views on what the endgame should look
like. Currently the biggest party in Belgium, N-VA has been labelled a
“centre-right conservative party” (Maddens 2017, p. 55). It argues for


implementing a confederalist Belgian state structure, seeing it as a viable
intermediate step towards establishing a Flemish republic in the long run.
The “far-right” Vlaams Belang, however, defends Flemish independence as
a short-term goal (Maddens 2017). However, it has always put more
emphasis on its anti-immigration programme, for which it has been labelled
“an antidemocratic racist party” (Maly 2016, pp. 266–267). The other
political parties have therefore consistently refused to govern with the party,
even though it currently is the second-biggest party in Flanders and the
third-biggest in Belgium.
Claims for more Flemish autonomy are not new. In reality, the hollowing
out of the Belgian state has been ongoing for many years. Created as a
unitary state in 1830, Belgium has evolved into a federal state following a
phased process of state reform that started in 1970. Nobody knows how
many more rounds will follow or what the final outcome will be, but 1993
seems to have been a point of no return. That year, Belgium officially
became a federal state with three regions (Flemish Region, Walloon Region
and Brussels Capital Region) and three Communities (Flemish Community,
French Community and German-speaking Community). The institutions of
the Flemish Region and the Flemish Community are merged, as a result of
which six governments define Belgian governance today, i.e. one federal
one and five regional ones.
To the outside world, however, Belgium is mostly known for its two
linguistic groups and their delicate relationship: the Dutch-speaking
‘Flemish’ and the French-speaking ‘Walloons’ (Deschouwer 2012). These
groups are separated by the ‘language border’, which runs across the middle
of the country, from west to east just below Brussels. Largely speaking, the
Flemish live in the northern part of the country, while the Walloons reside
in the southern part. The willingness to accommodate peaceful co-existence
between these two groups has driven past reform. Nearly all steps taken
have reduced the powers of the central state, while enhancing those of the
federated entities. In practice, two concerns, namely cultural and socio-
economic autonomy, have dominated discussions (Swenden and Jans 2006).
Cultural autonomy has been the main concern in the northern part of the
country. Advocating Flemish emancipation, the Flemish movement
emerged in reaction to French being the official language in the newly
created state of Belgium, where the majority of the population spoke Dutch.
Gradually, this movement broadened its focus to include socio-economic


issues. Today, these issues seem to be the core concern (Maddens 2017).
This process is very different from the southern part of the country, where
socio-economic autonomy has been the main, even only, concern in relation
to devolution. Unlike in Flanders, there is no strong shared sense of
regional identity or political parties cultivating such identity.
A closer look at the distribution of competences shows that both these
drivers are represented in Belgium’s institutional structure. Echoing the
Flemish concern for cultural autonomy, the Communities are responsible
for issues with an individual orientation. Examples include culture,
education and sport. The regions, by contrast, reflect Wallonia’s focus on
socio-economic 
autonomy. 
Having 
a 
territorial 
orientation, 
their
competences include issues such as environment and agriculture. The
federal authorities remain competent for policies with a general interest,
such as social security, foreign affairs, justice and defence.
Sport has not always been a regional competence, though. Neither has it
always been referred to in one breath with culture. For a long time, it was
seen as a health issue, thus falling under the competences of the Ministry of
Health. This would change in the early 1960s, when coalition talks resulted
in a typically Belgian compromise. Simply put, the socialist party agreed to
the catholic party’s request for a language-based split of the Ministry of
National Education and Culture, thus to the first decentralisation of a
ministry along communitarian lines (Gosseye 2012). In exchange, they
demanded that sport be transferred from the unitary Ministry of Health, a
department traditionally run by the catholic party, to these two new entities
(Eyskens 2010, p. 659).1 A second development that resulted in the current
state of affairs took place a few years later, in 1970. Following the first step
in the process of state reform, the Communities became responsible for
sport, giving them more opportunity for pursuing their own preferences
regarding both the promotion and subsidising of sport.2
On the ground, this transfer became particularly visible through the de-
establishment of the bilingual National Institute for Physical Education
(NILOS-INEPS, Nationaal Instituut voor Lichamelijke Opvoeding, de Sport
en het Openluchtleven – Institut National pour l’Education Physique et les
Sports) and the creation of the mono-lingual Dutch-speaking Bestuur voor
Lichamelijke Opvoeding, Sport en Openluchtleven (BLOSO)3 and the
Francophone Administration de L’Education Physique et des Sports
(ADEPS). While the building of sport infrastructure in all corners of


Flanders, like the implementation of large-scale ‘Sport for All’ campaigns,
fitted into the idea of “new, democratized Flemish culture”, it was the year
1977 that would mark the real start of government intervention in sport
(Bloso 1985, Gosseye 2012, p. 273, Renson 2006, p. 128). That year, the
Flemish Community used its sporting competence to introduce a decree to
regulate subsidies for sport federations, obliging sport federations to split up
into separate Flemish and Francophone ‘wings’ in order to receive
subsidies.4
This is not to say that there were no Flemish-oriented sport organisations
before 1977. To the contrary: a Flemish-inclined gymnastics organisation
(Gymnastische Volkskring) was founded as early as 1868. Various other
organisations were created during the interbellum. After the First World
War, the Flemish movement moved beyond mere cultural or linguistic aims
and began striving for Flemish autonomy, while the more radical Flemish
nationalists opted for outright secession. Their nation- and state-building
strategy also involved the development of a Flemish nationalist ‘pillar’, i.e.
a network of interlocking organisations. As part of that attempt, various
Flemish sport associations were founded. They include the Flemish
Football Association, the Flemish Tennis Federation and the Flemish
Swimming Union. These associations opposed the official Belgian and
often predominantly Francophone organisations. However, due to the
collaboration of Flemish nationalists with the German occupier during the
Second World War, Flemish nationalism became discredited and its
organisational network collapsed, along with the Flemish sport federations
(Renson 1998b).
The discussions surrounding the adoption of the 1977 decree revealed
that there were two opposing groups in Belgian sport governance at the
time: “the Belgian sporting establishment”, which strongly opposed what it
saw as “split fever”, and a group of Flemish sport officials, which
welcomed the opportunity to go their own way (Renson 2006, p. 137, own
translation, see also Bloso 1985, p. 8). Unsurprisingly, the first group was
driven by the largely French-speaking Belgian National Olympic
Committee (BOC), which even renamed itself Belgian Olympic and
Interfederal Committee (BOIC) in 1978 in an “explicit attempt” to keep
Belgian sport federations united under its umbrella (Renson 2006, p. 138,
own translation). By the end of the 1970s, however, most of the federations
were organised along federated lines. The exceptions were the federations


with particularly rich members (such as the golf federation and the
equestrian federation) and the most popular sport federations (such as the
football federation and the basketball federation), whose budgets did not
rely on regional funding since they had had sufficient commercial revenue
(Thibaut, 2000, pp. 9–10). Whereas even these federations would split up in
the 2000s,5 the BOIC has consistently resisted political pressure to follow
suit (Renson 2006).
Equally unsurprising is that BLOSO took the lead in developing an
autonomous Flemish sport policy. It “went on to sail a resolute Flemish
course” by organising, among others, the ‘Gordel’, a popular family cycling
and walking event that was organised from 1981 (to 2012) to symbolically
affirm the Flemish character of the increasingly French-speaking Flemish
outskirts of Brussels (Renson 1998b, own translation).6 Though it faced
budget strains during the 1980s, the Flemish government tightened its grip
on sport during the 1990s through campaigns aimed at promoting the
physical activity of the Flemish youth. The year 1993 was particularly
important here: the new step of state reform that was taken that year
provided impetus for a number of initiatives aimed at the international
promotion of Flanders through sport. An important driving force behind
these initiatives was then Flemish minister-president Luc Vanden Brande.
At his behest, a Flemish judo team was established and funded by the
Flemish government in 1993 to act as ‘Flemish cultural ambassadors’ by
participating in international events with the Flemish Lion on their
kimonos. The Flemish judo team was short-lived, however, as the European
judo federation promptly banned the use of the Flemish Lion, considering it
a form of illegal political advertising (Thibaut 2000, p. 21). In 1994, the
Flemish government started funding a cycling team named ‘Vlaanderen
2002 – Eddy Merckx’ to allow young talent to join the professional ranks
and to promote Flanders internationally (Vlaamse Raad 1994, p. 956). In
the same vein, in 1995, it started funding international elite sport events that
explicitly promoted Flanders through the association ‘Topsport Flanders
2002’ (Thibaut 2000, pp. 22–23). It was, however, not until the end of the
1990s that the Flemish government devised a formal policy plan for sport
(in 1997) and appointed a minister of sport (in 1999).
The instrumentalisation of sport for unionist purposes


The institutional set-up of both the Belgian state and the private sport
regime generates both drivers and inhibitors for those who seek to
instrumentalise sport for their separatist agendas. Because Flemish athletes
must participate in international sporting events under the Belgian flag and
in Belgian national teams, international sport events do not provide an
opportunity for legitimating the idea of an independent Flemish state and
expressing Flemish identity. On the contrary, sport provides opportunity for
promoting Belgian unity. This section first discusses this by drawing on
extant literature and by building on Billig’s (1995) seminal concept of
‘banal nationalism’. Next, it explores how two types of Belgian unitary
actors, the Belgian monarchy and Belgian sport bodies, use sport to boost
national unity in spite of the federalisation of Belgian sport structures.
Mitigating secessionism: sport as a metaphor for unity and a
source of banal nationalism
Two factors that make sport a political resource for promoting Belgian unity
are palpable. First, successful multicultural Belgian sport teams provide a
visible metaphor for justification of the unionist argument that a division of
the country would be a disadvantage. Even though individual athletes also
represent the nation when competing in non-domestic competitions,
national teams in particular “are often equated with the nation” (Grix and
Houlihan 2014, p. 574) and, thus, “provide a valuable metaphor for the
nation” (Houlihan 1997, p. 122). In the case of Belgium, this is particularly
true when the composition of national teams reflects the cultural-ethnic mix
of the Belgian population. When successful, these teams are an analogy to
Belgian nationalist discourse, which habitually stresses that “a division of
the country into its monocultural segments would constitute an
impoverishment” (Maddens and Vanden Berghe 2003, p. 613). This
explains why the national team of Belgium’s undisputed number one sport,
football, has been regarded as “a solid – and probably unique – symbol of
national unity unmatched by other expressions of nationalism” (Vanreusel
et al. 1999, p. 106). In fact, the Red Devils brand has never been more
successful than in recent years, thanks to the successes generated by a
talented generation of football players combined with very effective
marketing campaigns (Martiniello and Boucher 2017).7 Following the
example of the successful Red Devils brand, other Belgian national teams


have adopted English nicknames and ‘Belgian’ branding in an effort to
unite athletes and enthuse fans, so as to achieve sportive as well as
commercial success (Martin 2017). Particularly the sportive successes of
the Red Lions (2018 men’s hockey world champions and 2019 European
champions), the Belgian Cats (fourth place, 2018 women’s basketball world
championship), the Belgian Tornados (men’s 4 × 400 m 2018 European
Champions and 2019 indoor European champions) have recently attracted
public attention. The fact that the Red Devils are no longer a unique
phenomenon strengthens the link between sport and national unity.
Sport as a source of banal Belgian nationalism is the second factor that
explains why it can be employed for promoting Belgian unity. As Houlihan
observes, international sport competition provides an emotionally charged
occasion for citizens to symbolically associate with the state (Houlihan
1997, p. 121). Such competition does indeed bring about a high salience of
Belgian symbols in news media, public discourse and public spaces
(Martiniello and Boucher 2017). A large majority of Flemings feel
positively about Belgian sporting success (De Rycke and De Bosscher
2018).8 However, the effects of national sport success on feelings of
national pride and belonging are generally not considered sustainable
(Elling et al. 2014). Scholars accordingly doubt that expressions of Belgian
identity during major sport events constitute a sustainable form of Belgian
nationalism. De Waele and Sterck (2018) argue that the recent enthusiasm
for the Red Devils represents more of “a fleeting trend, an opportunity for
Belgians to enjoy good times together at a time where the country has been
going through political and social tensions for years” (p. 28). Martiniello
and Boucher (2017) even consider the possibility that support for the Red
Devils amounts to endorsing “a winning brand” (p. 234).9 Yet the concept
of ‘banal nationalism’ suggests that the impact of sport on Belgian identity
might work on an unconscious level. Introduced by Billig’s (1995) seminal
work, banal nationalism denotes the manifestation of the nation on a daily
basis in a mundane or a banal, seemingly innocuous manner, such that
“national identity is seldom forgotten” (Billig 1995, p. 174). In that regard,
the presence and celebration of Belgian symbols and the use of a Belgian
discursive frame of reference in the news media during major sport events
constitute an unquestioned and omnipresent identity experience. At the very
least, it unconsciously reminds Flemings of their Belgian identity (cf. Billig
1995). Against the background of separate Flemish political, institutional


and media systems, international sport competition even constitutes a rare
opportunity for Flemings to experience Belgian identity. Sport could
therefore be said to play a role in mitigating secessionist forces and, for as
long as Flemings still accept their Belgian nationality as a fact of everyday
reality, it is arguably more difficult to construct the “subjective will” to
form a Flemish nation (Maly 2016, p. 276).
The Belgian monarchy
While Belgian sportive success provides an opportunity for political
instrumentalisation, sport is a regional competence. The central government
thus does not have the policy tools to systematically employ sport as a
resource for national identity management.10 The Belgian monarchy fills
this void most visibly by associating itself with Belgian sportive success.
This is no surprise, as it traditionally “serves as a federal tool for mobilising
the Belgian public against more regional autonomy, let alone secession” and
is one of “few institutions of symbolic significance left along which a
Belgian identity can be sustained or constructed” (Swenden and Jans 2006,
p. 890). The king and queen thus visibly attend important international sport
tournaments and matches. Athletes and teams that have performed well in
international tournaments are typically invited to the royal palace for a
formal celebration in the presence of news media. After achieving third
place at the 2018 World Cup, for instance, the Red Devils were publicly
honoured by King Filip, who thanked the team “in the name of all
Belgians” and praised its “team spirit” (in Sporza 2018). It has been argued
that the discursive use of “all Belgians” in the speeches of the monarch
seeks “to marginalise the separatists” since it implies that “the proponents
of open or hidden separatism exclude themselves from the Belgian in-group
and in a sense become foreigners” (Maddens and Vanden Berghe 2003, p.
612). In a similar vein, individual politicians have capitalised on the
enthusiasm for Belgian sporting success to highlight their (party’s) pro-
unionist stance and to contrast it with Flemish nationalists’ lukewarm or
downright negative attitudes towards the Belgian state. In 2015, for
example, a French socialist politician called upon the Belgian parliament to
applaud the Red Devils’ first place on the official ranking of national
football teams – the Flemish nationalist parties reportedly did not respond
to her call (Belga 2015).


Sport governing bodies
The Belgian monarchy is not the only institution operating at the federal
level that has the opportunity to promote Belgian unity through sport.
Despite the aforementioned split of unionist sport federations, the BOIC
thus far has managed to resist pressure to split into separate divisions. In
addition, Belgian sport federations still exist for the simple reason that they
have to represent Belgium as a whole in international sport organisations,
selecting athletes that compete in international events, and, in the case of
some, such as the football, basketball and hockey federations, regulating
nation-wide competition. The majority of these federations could be
characterised as “empty shell[s]” in which “the two ‘wings’ of the old
Association [hold] the ‘umbrella’ together” (Bloso 1985, p. 8, own
translation). Nonetheless, all retain their aforementioned competences and
some Belgian federations even generate significant revenue through
international funds and the sale of marketing rights.
Belgian private sport bodies are often committed to achieving a greater
degree of Belgian unity. Adopting slogans such as “tous ensemble/allemaal
samen” (all together) and “red together”, the Belgian football federation’s
recent marketing campaigns are deliberately aimed at expressing and
inspiring unity (Belga 2018). This is no coincidence; in the past, players
such as Vincent Kompany cited lack of unity between Flemings and
Walloons as a key factor contributing to the underwhelming results of the
Red Devils (Simons 2007). Such tensions have been fuelled by the Flemish
and Walloon press, which have typically had distinct appreciations of
specific athletes and coaches based on their cultural-linguistic background
(Vanreusel et al. 1999). By contrast, the current Flemish and Francophone
media coverage of the Red Devils emphasises the unity of the multicultural
team (Mudde 2014). As mentioned, other Belgian sport federations
recognise that a narrative of unity provides an opportunity for bringing
together Belgian fans, athletes and the media (Martin 2017). Whether
intentional or not, such narratives could be interpreted as a discursive
defence of Belgian unity.
Beyond achieving commercial and sportive goals, some sport governing
bodies are said to have ideological motives for promoting Belgian identity
due to their close ties with the still existing Belgian political and economic
elite (Stuurgroep Sportend Vlaanderen 1997, p. 29). For example, the


Belgian football federation has been characterised as “a bastion of unitarian
Belgicism” (Vanreusel et al. 1999, p. 103, see also above) and the Belgian
hockey federation as “very elitist Francophone” (Renson 1998b, own
translation). Like the Belgian cycling and basketball federations, they long
resisted political pressure to split into Flemish and Francophone divisions.
The most prominent example in this regard, however, is the BOIC, which
traditionally has strong links with the Belgian monarchy and nobility and
economic elite (Renson 2006). According to Vanreusel et al. (1999), the
BOIC “is traditionally a Belgian nationalist stronghold” that “acts as a
militant defendant of the unitarian state” (p. 106). To this end, it capitalises
on Belgian sporting success to promote Belgian identity and construct a
basis for national unity. In the words of Vanreusel et al. (1999), the BOIC
“uses a subtle nationalist vocabulary and successes by Olympic athletes are
strongly praised in a national Belgian context” (Vanreusel et al. 1999).
Moreover, the BOIC’s actions have gone beyond the discursive promotion
of Belgian identity. When, in 2003, the Flemish government considered a
bid to organise the 2016 Olympic Games to promote the Flemish region
internationally, the BOIC responded that it would only support a bid that
involved all Belgian regions (Renson 2006, p. 168). Then IOC president
and former BOIC president Jacques Rogge supported this position and
stressed that Flanders would have to involve Brussels and Wallonia in its
bid (Killemaes 2003).
The instrumentalisation of sport for secessionist
purposes
It is no wonder that the instrumentalisation of sport for unionist purposes
does not sit well with those that seek Flemish autonomy. This section
explores how the Flemish nationalist parties N-VA and Vlaams Belang and
the Flemish movement are currently employing sport as a political resource.
The Flemish nationalist political parties
The two Flemish nationalist parties Vlaams Belang and N-VA have
different ways of dealing with the instrumentalisation of sport for unionist
purposes. While Vlaams Belang vehemently dismisses the impact of
sporting success on national unity (Pas 2018), N-VA has used its political


capital as the leading political party in Flanders to oppose new initiatives
that would express national unity through sport. For instance, it blocked the
sale of Flemish plots of land necessary for the construction of a new
national football stadium that would be used by the Red Devils and
Brussels football club Anderlecht (Bervoet 2017).11
Even though both parties have been critical of the political
instrumentalisation of sport by Belgian nationalists and N-VA officials
typically underscore that sport and politics should not be mixed, they, too,
seek to instrumentalise sport for the construction of a Flemish identity
(Neyt 2016, Pas 2018, Taiana 2019, Van Peel 2018). For instance, Vlaams
Belang has been advocating a split of the BOIC. Since the mid-2000s, when
the Red Devils were seriously underperforming and communitarian
tensions were palpable in the team, the party has repeatedly called for the
establishment of a Flemish national football team that would imply the
abolishment of the Belgian national football team (Flemish Parliament
2005). It has been supportive of a 2010 media campaign by the Flemish
movement that proposed a Flemish national football team under the
nickname Flemish Lions to promote Flemish identity (Belga 2010). This
initiative was abandoned as it is deemed unviable within the context of the
recent international success and popular support for the Red Devils (SSL
2016). Accordingly, though certain members of Vlaams Belang are still
supportive of the idea of a Flemish national football team, it is currently not
a priority issue (Taiana 2019).
By contrast, N-VA is more ambiguous on the matter even though it has
held the ministerial position of sport in the Flemish government since 2009.
On one hand, the cabinet of Flemish minister of sport Philippe Muyters (N-
VA) indicated that it would be supportive of initiatives to establish a
Flemish national football team in order to incorporate Flemish football
players that do not qualify for the Red Devils (SSL 2016). On the other
hand, minister Muyters and other N-VA mandataries stress that they would
only seek to establish a Flemish team in the context of a politically
independent Flanders (Vlaams Parlement 2005, Neyt 2016). Establishing a
full-fledged Flemish team that would abolish the Red Devils is considered
too complex and provocative (Vlaams Parlement 2005). Consequently, the
N-VA party bureau has instructed elected party members to dodge questions
about the Red Devils’ performance (Demeulemeester 2014).


N-VA’s reticent approach towards a Flemish national football team
mirrors the party’s general political strategy. Aware that overt separatism is
not so popular in Flanders, N-VA considers Flemish independence a long-
term goal, which is to be reached through a coordinated strategy of
banalising nationalism (Billig 1995, Maly 2016, see above). Accordingly,
N-VA shies away from ‘hot’ Flemish nationalism by promoting “a new
nationalistic discourse which has succeeded in positioning the party as
‘moderate’, ‘democratic’, ‘intellectual’, ‘rational’ and as very different from
the ‘closed nationalism’ of Vlaams Belang” (Maly 2016, p. 279). This
could explain why, in his ten-year reign as sport minister, Philippe Muyters
took a less voluntaristic approach towards instrumentalising sport than the
Flemish government in the early 1990s. For instance, unlike some of his
predecessors, he avoided sensitive issues like the split of the BOIC, which
receives regional funding despite remaining unitary, and the representation
of Flanders at international sport events (Goubert 2018). Instead, Muyters
undertook rather orthodox initiatives to manage identity and achieve
international prestige through public sport policies. Most of these initiatives
built on policies that already existed. They include the funding of
international sport events and a cycling team, a range of measures to
support elite athlete development, and campaigns to promote the visibility
of Flemish elite sport programmes and the presence of Flanders in
international fora (Muyters 2009, 2014).
Despite attracting criticism from Flemish nationalists (Goubert 2018),
one could argue that this soft approach towards instrumentalising sport
permits the seemingly apolitical manifestation of Flemish symbols in daily
life and, in this way, provides an almost subliminal counterweight for the
unitary sportive identity politics. This Flemish policy allows highly visible
Flemish institutions such as Flemish sport federations and the Flemish sport
administration to remain uncontroversial and thus become banal and taken-
for-granted aspects of Flemish society. Muyters’ decision to change the
name of the Flemish sport administration from ‘BLOSO’ – a highly
recognised and successful brand – to ‘Sport Vlaanderen’ (‘Sport Flanders’)
in 2016 can be seen in the same light. Sparking little controversy, the name
change significantly increased the visibility of the Flemish nature of an
institution that takes a central position in the governance and funding of
recreational and elite sport (De Boeck 2015).


The Flemish movement
While the Flemish movement was very active in the field of sport during
the interbellum, as mentioned above, this was far less the case in the post-
war period. This neglect of sport can be attributed to three developments.
First, the establishment from 1977 onwards of Flemish and hence unilingual
Dutch sport federations meant that a key goal of the movement had been
reached. Second, the Flemish movement became dominated by intellectuals
and the highly educated, who had a certain disdain for popular sport
(Goubert 2018, Interview Steven Vergauwen, staff member Vlaamse
Volksbeweging, 23 October 2019). Finally, as demonstrated above, towards
the end of the twentieth century, the Flemish government had taken over the
instrumentalisation of sport for Flemish identity management from the
Flemish movement.
Nevertheless, it is this government policy which, at the beginning of this
century, seems to have triggered a renewed interest in sport within the
movement. The government’s prudent approach towards sport and identity
politics did not sit well with the radicalised Flemish nationalists, who again
started to advocate outright secession. However, because the movement
lacked the means and the popular support to actively promote independence
through sport, it opted for a softer strategy of banal nationalism by making
the Flemish flag as visible as possible during sportive events (cf. Billig
1995, p. 122). For that purpose, in 2001, a specific organisation was
created, namely ‘Vlaanderen Vlagt’ (‘Flanders waves the flag’).
Inspired by the Basques, who have a long tradition of waving the
ikurrina whenever a race passes through their region, the movement
focused on cycling. Given the close connection between cycling and
Flemish identity, waving the Flemish flag rather than the Belgian one
during a cycling event is generally considered as something natural and
non-political. For the past two decades, Flemish nationalists have massively
distributed flags during the Tour of Flanders, Paris–Roubaix, the Tour de
France and major Flemish cyclo-cross events. For instance, during the Tour
of Flanders of 2019, no less than 80,000 little flags were handed to the
spectators. That the Flemish Lion now has become an integral part of the
scenery of cycling is considered by many Flemish nationalists as one the
most notable achievements of the past years (Interview Steven Vergauwen,
staff member Vlaamse Volksbeweging, 23 October 2019).12


Other attempts by Flemish nationalists to instrumentalise sport have
been less successful. As noted, initiatives to create a Flemish national
football team in the early 2000s were in vain. The Flemish movement
lacked the logistics and finances to pursue a plan to organise a Flemish–
Catalan match in Barcelona and minister Muyters declined to provide
governmental support (Interview Wart Van Schel, former staff member
Vlaamse Volksbeweging, 25 October 2019). When, a few years later, the
Red Devils became successful and popular again, the Flemish movement
realised that any proposal to split the team would only be met with
contempt and ridicule.
Conclusion
This chapter demonstrates that sport is regarded as a potent resource for
those who seek more far-reaching regionalisation or a downright split of the
Belgian state. While the Flemish movement initially instrumentalised sport
to help accomplish the social and cultural emancipation of the Flemish
people, it is currently used by both the largest Flemish party N-VA and the
Flemish movement in the context of a soft strategy of banalising Flemish
nationalism. While the Flemish governments’ current uncontroversial
approach towards identity management through sport fits within N-VA’s
conscious moderate nationalist discourse, a lack of resources explains in
part why the Flemish movement’s strategy is limited to distributing Lion
flags during cycling events.
Both are, however, also confronted with the reality that a push towards
secessionism through sport is unviable within the context of the
international success of Belgian national teams. In fact, by serving as
metaphors for Belgian unity, successful multicultural national teams like the
Red Devils reinforce and confirm the Belgian nationalist discourse that a
split of the country would constitute an impoverishment. Moreover,
expressions of Belgian identity during major sport events constitute a banal
form of Belgian nationalism. Reminding Flemings of their Belgian identity,
they contribute to the acceptance of Belgian nationality as a fact of
everyday reality. This potential role of sport in mitigating, even countering
secessionist forces makes it a valuable political resource for those who seek
to protect Belgian unity.


1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Concluding, it is clear that sport is both a significant driver and inhibitor
for Flemish secessionism. The politics and impact of the instrumentalisation
of sport for both separatist and unionist purposes therefore deserve further
scholarly attention. The metaphorical back and forth game between lions
and devils, separatism and unionism in Belgian politics results in peculiar
dynamics. These dynamics will most likely continue to be at play, unless
the institutional context dramatically changes, particularly if Belgium were
to split. Until then, seas of yellow and red supporters will keep alternating
like the turn of the tide, as Flemings habitually express both their national
and sub-national identities during sport events.
Acknowledgements
The authors wish to thank Malaika Schwedes, Frederik Verleden and the
interviewees for providing valuable input. The usual disclaimer applies.
Notes
The authors wish to thank Frederik Verleden for pointing this out.
The constitutional amendment of 24 December 1970 established that the national parliament has
no competence in cultural affairs, which are transferred to the Cultural Councils of the
Communities. Article 2.9 of the law of 21 July 1971 on the competence and functioning of the
Cultural Councils for the Dutch Cultural Community and for the French Cultural Community
[Wet betreffende de bevoegdheid en de werking van de Cultuurraden voor de Nederlandse
cultuurgemeenschap en voor de Franse cultuurgemeenschap] defined physical education, sport
and outdoor activity as cultural matters.
Though the name and legal status of the agency would change multiple times, it would keep its
BLOSO acronym until 2016, when Sport Vlaanderen was established (see below).
Adopted on 2 March 1977. The Francophone community had no choice but to adopt a similar
decree and did so on 22 December 1977.
The equestrian federation split up in 2000, the cycling and basketball federations in 2001, the
football federation in 2009, and the hockey federation in 2012.
The event was restyled into the less politically oriented ‘Gordelfestival’ following the split of the
electoral district of Brussels-Halle-Vilvoorde into the electoral districts of Brussels and Flemish
Brabant in 2012. This split eased major political tensions between the linguistic communities.
The current generation of Red Devils reflects the Belgian ethno-cultural reality, as it is
multilingual and a significant number of players are from an immigrant background. Notice that
the Belgian football team which came fourth in the 1986 World Cup was predominantly
composed of (white) Flemings, the most notable exception being Enzo Scifo, the Francophone
star player of Italian descent.
A sense of pride for the recent achievements of the Red Devils has also been prevalent among
segments of Belgium’s migrant population (Martiniello and Boucher 2017). Whether the success
of the highly multicultural Belgian national football team contributes to a stronger identification


9
10
11
12
with Belgium among migrants, on one hand, and more tolerance towards immigrants among
Belgian nationals, on the other, has yet to be researched.
Note that, on the occasion of the 2018 World Cup, Belgian brewery Anheuser-Busch InBev
changed the name of Jupiler, the most popular beer in Belgium, to ‘Belgium’ for five months.
Notice, however, that the federal government can still allocate funds, for instance, for enhancing
the international image of Belgium. Consequently, it has funded the start of the Tour de France
in Brussels in 2019.
The Brussels government definitively shelved its plans for the stadium in 2018. At that time, the
city had already lost its hosting privileges for the 2020 European football championship
following multiple construction delays.
This is all the more remarkable, as the flag shown is not the official one, but the so-called battle
flag, featuring the Flemish Lion with black claws instead of red ones. This is comparable to the
distinction between the official Catalan flag and the Estelada or independence flag. The use of
the battle flag has recently been discredited through its association with far-right groups.
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Chapter 5
The tug of war of nationalisms
Agonic sports for Basque–Spanish relations
Mariann Vaczi
Introduction
“The ‘sokatira’ or ‘tug of war’ of nationalism for a national team,” read a
headline of the centralist Spanish newspaper ABC in August 2014. “The
Basque team will ditch ‘Spain,’ and will be ‘Basque Country’ in the World
Championship of ‘nations’ of the United States” (Reyero, 2014). The article
went on to describe that the Basque team’s participation has been recognized
by the Tug of War International Federation, and it will compete against such
“power houses” as the United States, Sweden, Switzerland, the Netherlands,
Germany, Italy, and South Africa. The Spanish Constitutional Court
approves of this participation, ABC wrote, in the absence of a Spanish
Federation in tug of war.
This is precisely the objective of Basque nationalism, which has been
promoting the ‘officialdom’ of Basque teams so that the Basque
Country or Catalonia could compete against Spain, and thus add weight
to the visualization of political clashes between ‘nations’ of the State.
The dream is, ABC continued, “to locate the ikurrina [Basque national flag]
as high as possible, at the same level as other countries, as its promoters
acknowledge.” Tug of war was the first Basque sport to “have achieved this


status of ‘independence,’ ” but the Basque government, the article noted, has
been urging the Basque Federation of Traditional Sports (Herri Kirolak) to
follow suit. “Stone lifters (harrijasotzailes), wood cutters with saws
(trontzalaris), and wood cutters with axes (aizkolaris) wouldn’t have a
Spanish rival in international competition, either,” the article concluded.
Much is revealed in this passage if one is versed in the sub-texts of state–
region relations in Spain. First, it comes from a right-wing, Spanish
nationalist, monarchist newspaper, the third largest in Spain. The ABC article
mocked Basque ambitions to create regional national teams from a position
of legal authority. Spain does not allow regional national teams in sports
where there is a Spanish team, which means the Basque Country and other
regions may only compete in marginal sports such as tug of war. The
ostentatious use of quotation marks for the word “national” with reference to
the Basques is an affirmation of the opposite: that the Basques are not really
a nation. That word may only be used with reference to Spain, as Article II
of the Spanish Constitution clearly stipulates, and regions may only refer to
themselves as “nationalities.” When in 2010 the Spanish Supreme Court
rejected the newly revised Catalan Statute of Autonomy because, among
other things, the Statute referred to the region as a “nation,” one million
Catalans went into the streets to protest under the banner “We are a nation,
We decide,” effectively starting the current secessionist fervor. Curiously,
while Spain can be a “nation” and Catalonia and the Basque Country cannot,
when it comes to the word “nationalism,” it is suddenly the other way
around: from a monarchist centralist perspective, the n-word is strictly
reserved for secessionist Basques and Catalans, whereas Spanish nationalism
is referred to as “centralism,” or “constitutionalism.” And last but not least,
ABC’s condescending tone essentializes Basques through their traditional
sports as primitive and reliant on brute physical force.
Sports become a favorite allegory for political relationships because
athletic values such as strength, endurance, competence, or courage may be
projected onto the political realm (Hargreaves, 2000, p. 13) in a field whose
main feature is agôn (Caillois, 1961). A more perceptive commentary would
have remarked on the subtle irony that the Basques should be on top of the
world in a sport (sokatira or tug of war) that so finely empathizes with
traditional Basque valorizations of direct physical strength (indarra), and so
aptly embodies the region’s binary struggle (agôn) with Spain. This chapter
will take sport for an agonic realm of embodiment and representation, and
itt
e
i


will revisit how the ethos and body technique of Basque sports, both modern
and traditional, may inform Basque political culture and ideological
dispositions.
Basque nationalism and separatism
Today, the Basque Country is enjoying its post-conflict peace. The Basque
Autonomous Community (BAC) has arguably the highest degree of
autonomy among the 17 communities of Spain, which the post-Franco
Constitution established in a quasi-federal arrangement of devolution of
central powers. The BAC has a Statute of Autonomy, a regional government,
its own police forces, educational system, co-official Basque language, and,
importantly, significant fiscal autonomy compared to other regions of Spain.
While pro-independence sectors do not have a majority today, Basque
nationalism and separatism has been a central political and social experience
in the region for more than a hundred years.
The modern Basque nationalist movement may be divided into three main
epochs: the emergence, consolidation, and exile of the Basque Nationalist
Party (1895–1959); the emergence of ETA (1959–2011); and post-ETA
political aspirations. Basque nationalist ideology, symbolism, and the
Basque Nationalist Party emerged as a result of the work of Sabino Arana
Goiri at the end of the nineteenth century. In-group boundaries were
distinctively formed, as Arana’s ideology emphasized the racial and ethnic
distinctiveness of Basques, by which he meant Bizkaians with eight Basque
last names, as opposed to maketo Spaniards. Arana established the Basque
Nationalist Party (Partido Nacionalista Vasco, PNV) in 1895, which attracted
the bourgeois-industrial elite that became spectacularly wealthy due to the
richness of the area in iron ore, enabling the region to partake in the
Industrial Revolution in real time due to commerce with Britain, ship
building, and a booming banking sector. The PNV constituted the first
Basque Autonomous government in 1936 in the midst of the Spanish Civil
War, which Catalonia also pursued and achieved. With losing the Civil War,
and the Francoist takeover, however, autonomy was suspended as a result of
the regime’s aggressive centralization and homogenization efforts. The
Basque Nationalist Party elite saw its wealth confiscated and its members
persecuted and purged from public life, and the Basque autonomous
government fled into exile.
fiscal autonomy : AREREIN
Free


The 1959 emergence of the separatist ETA was a response to Francoist
cultural and linguistic repression, and the absence and battle fatigue of PNV-
style Basque nationalism. Initially an underground student movement that
sought to maintain Basque culture and language against persecution, ETA
was a Marxist organization that turned against the bourgeois capitalism of
the old movement, and reached out to the working classes. ETA changed the
definitions of Basqueness: instead of Basque genealogy, blood-based
metaphors, surnames, and religiosity, being abertzale “patriot” meant
sympathy with the Basque political cause of liberation (MacClancy, 1993, p.
107). ETA’s first assassination took place in 1968 as a result of a routine road
check. From that point on, ETA engaged in a campaign of kidnapping and/or
assassinating individuals who were seen as enemies of the Basque people:
Francoist police, politicians, and even capitalists of Basque descent. With
Franco’s death and the Transition to democracy in the 1970s, ETA’s
activities did not decrease. In spite of the fact that the region was granted
one of the most advanced autonomies in Europe in 1979, ETA’s operations
continued. Gradually, ETA became the greatest obstacle to channeling
Basque nationalism into official directions; its operations could no longer be
justified as a response to an aggressive dictatorship, and its killings included
innocent civilians. After several unsuccessful cease fires, it finally disbanded
in 2011 (Murua, 2016). In a long and agonizing process, Basque nationalism
has consolidated in the moderate center-right conservative direction of the
Basque Nationalist Party, and the officialdom of left-wing parties that
condemned the violence.
The peasant in every body: the rural ethos of sporting
identities
Es un aldeano “he is a peasant!” a soccer fan once admiringly told me about
Iribar, the legendary goalkeeper of Athletic Club in the 1970–1980s. Iribar,
whose fame went beyond the borders of Spain and who was one of the most
revered citizens of Bilbao – a metropolitan area of almost a million – was
hardly a “peasant.” While the word would be an insult in other languages,
aldeano is one of the greatest compliments a Basque man can receive: it
means he is seen as loyal, simple, silent, and serious, as a Basque man is
ought to be by cultural mandate.
↓Free
d
-
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CENTOR)


Basque sports have thrived on hard peasant virtues even in their modern
sports that valorize strong, direct, no-nonsense play. When in 1958 Athletic
Club de Bilbao played the final of Franco’s Generalissimo’s Cup against
Real Madrid, something of a “national team” endorsed by Franco himself,
people in Bilbao sold their furniture to be able to make the trip to the capital,
which they made on top of uncomfortable trucks. By then, Madrid was a
veritable powerhouse: it had just snapped Alfredo Di Stéfano from FC
Barcelona, and was going for the triplete, or triple championship title of
league, cup, and European cup. Athletic beat Real Madrid 2–0 before its
own home crowd. The next day Athletic Club president Enrique Guzmán
said on the City Hall balcony at the homecoming: “We have humiliated them
with once aldeanos, eleven peasants!” (in Vaczi, 2015, p. 29). Such is the
cult of the honest, unpretentious rural man who by sheer tenacity beats
stronger and more powerful opponents that decades later, in 1999, when
Athletic, now in a multi-million-dollar elite sport environment, qualified for
the Champion’s League, star forward Julen Guerrero was celebrated as “the
player [who] brought us, ‘eleven peasants,’ to Europe.”
As often happened with nation-building efforts in nineteenth-century
Europe (Bauman and Briggs, 2003), the Basque nationalist elite drew on
folk elements, rural life, the vernacular language, and the idealized image of
peasantry to create a sense of local identity. The cult of the simple rural man
has proliferated through the preferred body techniques of Basque sports,
turning physical culture into one of the most salient manifestations of
Basque masculinities and identities. Herri kirolak such as stone lifting, wood
chopping, hay mowing with scythes, iron bar throwing, contests involving
animals such as cock fights or ram fights, the pulling of weights by draft
animals all manifest a strong valorization of direct physical strength (Figure
5.1). But rural sports brought out not only the ethos and romance of the
peasant, but also a certain brutality of rural life. Embedded in a system of
honor, these contests sometimes drove peasants to threaten the well-being of
their animals, the fortune and subsistence of their families (Walton, 2011).
Animal brutality, drunkenness, pride, rancor, and impulsiveness were often
corollaries to these contests, essentially family feuds. Julio Medem’s award-
winning movie Vacas (Cows, 1992) presents precisely this world through the
wood-cutting rivalry between two families across three generations (1875–
1936). Against the backdrop of major historical events such as the 1875
Carlist War and the 1936 Civil War, Vacas transmits an eerie atmosphere of
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madness, incest, pride, fatality, honor, and shame bred by the claustrophobia
of rural sociality.




Figure 5.1
Traditional sport (aizkolari or wood cutting) contest in
1967 in Donosti-San Sebastián. Rural sports valued
direct strength, and the concept of indarra (force) had a
particular 
importance 
for 
Basque 
masculinities 
and
identities.
Source: Wikimedia Commons. Author: Kutxa Fototeka.
As early as 1920, urban city halls started to put a ban on the more brutal
forms of rural sport contests involving animals, as they were seen as
irreconcilable with the civilized image that such modern phenomena as
tourism started to require (Walton, 2011, p. 460). There were efforts to
channel traditional sports toward modern forms: in 1920, Club Deportivo de
Bilbao launched a search for stone lifters and iron bar throwers to train them
for the hammer- and discus-throwing events at the forthcoming Antwerp
Olympics, but nothing came of it. There was, however, one notable example
of someone breaking out of the world of rural sports into a mainstream
modern sport: Paulino Uzcudun, formerly a wood-chopper champion from
the rural Basque province of Gipuzkoa, went on to have a successful
international career as a heavy weight boxer (Walton, 2011, p. 461). Today,
these traditional sports lack championships, and have become folkloric
display events at fiestas in the Basque Country and the American diaspora.
Another sport that evolved from traditional forms of subsistence is remo,
regatta de traineras or deep-sea rowing in a boat that was originally used for
catching anchovies, sardines, and, important for the Basques, whaling. The
sport has various modalities of 4, 6, or 13 rowers and a cox, and was
historically a main channel of inter-village rivalry as village teams competed
to reach the shores of a destination town along the Bay of Biscay and the
Cantabrian Sea. Unlike farmstead-related traditional sports, remo went
through modernization and, importantly, was a “presentable” spectacle: the
1861 Santander estropada, just outside the Basque Country, was witnessed
by Queen Isabella II. The first Kontxako Estropada was organized in San
Sebastián, and later consolidated itself as the most important championship;
it attracted a crowd of 12,000 in 1879. The dramatic Cantabrian Sea, the
hanging cliffs of its shores and the generally inhospitable weather of the Bay
of Biscay turned the sport, once again, into an icon of toughness and
tenacity. Remo resonates in particular with Basque imaginaries of maritime
perseverance, which turned the region into famed deep-sea fishermen and
whalers who ventured all the way to Newfoundland (Zulaika, 1981).
FEE


Importantly, it also reflects the agency and independence of fishermen’s
wives at home: even when female sport was still inconceivable, the oral
poetry tradition (bertsolaritza) tells us that female rowers called batelerak
existed, as affirmed by the batelera dantza, a dance performed by women
with oars.
Between lions and foxes: the obligation to take sides
The Basque traditional sport par excellence is pelota, a squash-like game
played against a wall, which has different modalities based on the
instruments used and the number of players (Figure 5.2). It is hard to
overestimate the grasp of pelota on the Basque cultural imaginary, and the
game continues to nourish Basque ideas of strength, masculinity, nobleness,
identity, and character. In fact, González Abrisketa notes, there exists a
curious discrepancy between the ideological and cultural importance of the
game and its currently rather modest social presence (2012, p. 10) due to
historical events and the spread of modern games such as soccer.
The first record of pelota goes back to Bilbao in 1509, to a prohibition to
play pelota against the walls of the Cathedral of Santiago in the old part of
town called Casco Viejo (González Abrisketa, 2012, p. 51). The building
and its atrium, essentially a cemetery, acted as a central point for the town,
and it was here that the game was first documented – curiously, hundreds of
years later the first Basque soccer game took place in a cemetery too (Vaczi,
2014). At the end of the sixteenth century, a new street was built by the
Cathedral, right where pelota was played – to this day the street is called the
Calle de la Pelota. The eighteenth and nineteenth centuries witnessed
transformations of the game and its consolidation, followed by it being
catapulted to spectacular global success by the end of the nineteenth century.
Way before soccer would become professional, or even arrive in the Bay of
Biscay, professional pelotaris traveled widely to play for money at the
frontons of Madrid, Barcelona, Buenos Aires, or Montevideo, some of which
had a capacity of 5000 seats (González Abrisketa, 2012, p. 64). Such was the
game’s popularity that it inspired several specialized newspapers: Pelotari,
La Chistera and La Pelota in the Basque Country (1886–1887), El Pelotari
in Madrid (1893), and Frontón in Barcelona (1894). The game’s twentieth-
century success reached its zenith as jai alai (“happy fiesta”) in North
American frontons when, in the 1950s, it attracted Hollywood stars,


politicians, writers, and other personages before its 1970s decline as a result
of a players’ strike (González Abrisketa, 2017).




Figure 5.2
Pelotaris playing against the walls of the City Hall in 1949
in Asteasu, Gipuzkoa province.
Source: Wikimedia Commons. Author: Kutxa Fototeka.
Pelota is a paradigmatically agonic, binary game not only in structure,
but also due to the system of allegiances it generated in Basque society. The
game emerged in the medieval social context of local blood feuds and
factions. These factions followed, essentially, a binary logic of loyalties:
entire clans and lineages positioned themselves against others along two
major kinship lines, the most well-known of which was the rivalry between
the Martínez de Oñaz and the Gamboas family (González Abrisketa, 2012,
pp. 39–40). These factions turned social life into competitive rivalry to
establish distinctiveness. Pelota, González Abrisketa argues, urges taking a
position for antagonism’s sake. It often happens that entire family lineages
follow players not for some ideology, but out of an obliging tradition to
support the opponent of the player one’s neighbors support. The game,
therefore, is “antagonism in its purest state” (González Abrisketa, 2012, p.
101), and its fans resonate with a particular rural persona called the xelebre,
or a “villager fond of paradox”: a man who “generally defends the
opposition (inverse) opinion from that externalized by the majority” (Baroja,
209, p. 233).
The duality of the game’s agonic disposition is further reinforced by two
archetypes pelota players embody: the lion and the fox. The proliferation of
beasts in political imaginaries, the ideological figuration of the wolf, the fox,
the lion, the lamb, the serpent, the eagle show, with Lévi-Strauss, that we
single out animals not only because they are “good to eat,” but because they
are “good to think” (1963, p. 89). The lion, or back court player, possesses
the culturally preferred traits of Basque indarra or strength through his
direct, unpretentious, honest game whose main purpose is to send the ball as
far back and as high as possible. The fox, or front court player, is agile,
rapid, and conniving, his main ambition being to trick his opponent into a
mistake. The lion embodies Basque notions of nobility, while the fox is an
archetype of seductive, if unreliable, thrills. Importantly, it is extraordinarily
rare that a player should possess both traits. As the Basque philosopher
Migel de Unamuno said about the agonic contest of archetypal powers, there
are those who “are slaves to their blood and temperament,” who follow “the
force of cunning, of calculus and rapidity, and those who adore and believe
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in blatant and solid strength, open and without deceit” (in González
Abrisketa, 2012, p. 99).
The game’s eminently agonic and antagonistic character turned it into a
master metaphor for the much acclaimed and controversial documentary
Basque Ball: Skin against Stone (2003). The documentary tackles the
Basque political “Troubles” through interviews with politicians, public
personages, and victims and perpetrators on both sides. The film is
structured like a pelota game: the interviewees are positioned into two
antagonistic camps (Basque and Spanish), and their comments are produced
in quick succession in a dialectic that resonates with the action–reaction type
of violence between ETA and the Spanish state. Pelota exhibited the agonic
dialectic between the Basque Country and Spain for 50 years, whereby each
party reacted to the reaction of the other in an effort to send blame and
responsibility into the field of the other. In pelota, the objective of the game
is for one’s opponent to miss a return, a situation called huts or “void.”
“Scoring is forcing a void,” Zulaika writes (in González Abrisketa, 2012, pp.
7–8) about pelota, and Basque–Spanish politics, the documentary suggests,
seems to have deployed this basic pelota strategy for decades.
And finally, the binary of the game also points at how political
antagonisms organized Basque society into two camps of “with us, or
against us.” Pelota “incites men to take position” (González Abrisketa,
2012, p. 18). There is no neutrality or withdrawal against the cultural
mandate to take a stand. Similarly, in politics, the extreme polarization of
positions allows for no equidistancia, or neutral stance. Part of the violence
of the conflict was that, like a pelota game, it forced people into one camp or
the other, Basque nationalist or Spanish state, without the possibility of
rejecting both, or of positioning oneself outside this moral framework.
Such is the association of pelota with the Basques that one of its
modalities, the cesta punta, gained spotlight in the media recently during the
2019 October pro-independence civil unrest in the Catalan capital Barcelona.
The cesta punta is a curved basket that helps pelotaris throw the ball at a
speed of 170 miles per hour, which earned it the name “the fastest game in
the world.” In an effort to attribute terrorism-type violence to protesters, the
Spanish centralist digital newspaper El Confidencial claimed that Basque
separatists trained in ETA’s violence were among the Catalan rioters. To
support this argument, the medium claimed that “cesta punta basket gloves
were found, the kind that are used in the Basque pelota,” whose impact can
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*


be very damaging (Fernández, 2019). One had to be an expert to use it, the
argument went, like ETA-followers did in their own street fights (kale
borroka) during the 1980s. This was a very random association; in reality,
the idea of cesta punta as a “weapon” probably came from a Western movie
scene, where the tool is used in a fight between cowboys and Native
Americans. For El Confidencial, however, the pelota instruments were proof
of professional Basque terrorists training Catalans in urban guerrilla warfare.
The Basque strength, the English way, and the Spanish
fury of soccer
Soccer arrived in the Basque Country through Bilbao’s industrial exchange
with Great Britain at the end of the nineteenth century. The first game was
the result of a challenge launched in a local daily to the British sailors and
dock workers who were kicking around a leather ball in their free time in the
downtown port of the city, by the river, among cargo ships, railway lines,
and warehouses: would the British footballmens play a friendly match
against the local team? (Terrachet, 1998, p. 23). The British, who had a
coach, proper shoes, and a clear concept of the game, won that first game 0–
6, but such was the success and enthusiasm about the new game that a repeat
quickly followed. The Bilbao elite, which was generally fascinated by all
things British, quickly took to the game and established the first club in
1898, called Athletic Club. A few years later the neighboring town, San
Sebastián, established Vasconia in 1902, the predecessor of what later
became Real Sociedad, and Irun, on the French border, founded Irun Foot-
Ball Club in 1906.
Soccer was endorsed by the Basque industrial elite (Díaz Noci, 2000),
who identified with the Basque nationalist movement. The sons of the most
influential industrial-nationalist families were founders, directors, or players
in early Basque soccer culture, as well as members of the Basque Nationalist
Party founded only three years earlier. They saw the sport as a great way to
advance regeneration of the Basque race, as it showed great “compatibility
with established ideas of manliness” (Walton, 1999, p. 264). As the
newspaper Bizkaitarra wrote in 1919, “The Basque race, by conviction of its
positive physical superiority, is one of the most saturated with this healthy
fighting spirit and competence, synthesized by the Saxons with the word
struggle” (in Vaczi, 2015, p. 153).


The tough, physical game of the English, also called la manera inglesa,
was so well suited to local cultural temperaments that decades later, the
internationally renowned sculptor Oteiza argued it was the perfect
expression of the Basque soul: “the long, diagonal pass and the oblique run;
that is the essence of the Basque game.” The Bilbao industrial elite found
that the game, which entered a phase of professionalization, would provide
Basque modernity, progress, and internationalization:
We shouldn’t be surprised by the type of player who is
“internationalizable.” The Basque land, whose penchant for games of
collision has been demonstrated by history, offers the type of young
man who is strong, agile and intelligent, who leaps the farmsteads and
flips the coin of chance in the vestibule that invites him to take the first
steps toward the most modern of professions.
(Sota, 1932, pp. 119–120)
The English game spread with such sweeping momentum that it soon
threatened the indigenous game pelota. Some contemporary commentators
in the 1920s were greatly distressed by the
melancholy vision of a whole generation of young men and boys driven
crazy by the English ball, and therefore turning its back on the most
elegant, noble and virile of sporting exercises … Between pelota and
football they choose the latter, and the closed-down courts give way to
the stadium.
(Eugenio Noel in Walton, 1999, p. 273)
Soon, pelota frontons closed or paled beside the soccer stadiums of Bilbao
and San Sebastián. The way soccer pushed pelota out in a literal sense in
San Sebastián was illustrative of a certain paradigm shift in Basque sport,
and the crisis of pelota. When the question of expanding the Atocha stadium
to a capacity of 20,000 was put before the city hall, an improvement that was
going to demolish the adjacent pelota fronton, the minority voices
supporting the Basque national sport were sidelined by arguments that
soccer brought Basques the “regeneration of race,” and the international
promotion of San Sebastián.
The Basque indarra or physical toughness inspired what came to be
called Spanish Fury, the brand of the Spanish national team. The 1920
Sculptor : i ****
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Olympic Games in Antwerp, Belgium, was conspicuous for its physicality,
passion, and force manifested, in particular, by the Basque José Mari
Belausteguigoitia. Contemporary press accounts describe how Belauste, in a
“predatory position,” caught a pass with “such strength that he and various
Swedes tumbled together into the goal. It was a Herculean goal!” (Manoli de
Castro in Burns, 2012, p. 58). The Italian Press called the team la Furia
Rossa (Red Rage), and soon they were called the Spanish Fury (Figure 5.3).
Belauste was presented as “the soul of the Spanish team” (Díaz Noci, 2000,
p. 5) in a 1921 publication about the great figures of Spanish sport. The
Basque player’s playing style provided the adjectives that would describe the
Spanish Fury for decades: nobility, courage, pressure, enthusiasm, vigor,
energy, and spirit (Díaz Noci, 2000, p. 5).




Figure 5.3
The Spanish Fury in 1920 in Antwerp.
Source: Wikimedia Commons. Author: Unknown.
Ironically, however, the player that lent identity to the Spanish national
team, which in turn became one of the most important cultural icons of
Spain, was a staunch anti-Spain Basque nationalist. Belauste was a Basque
Nationalist Party youth section member, and was later forced to go to France
and Mexico for his nationalist activities. “It is quite ironic,” his daughter
Lorea writes, “that the ‘Spanish Fury’ should come from this Basque
nationalist, director of the soccer team of the Basque Nationalist Party
youth” (in Bacigalupe, 2005, p. 29). Decades later, in the 1950s, the Basque
forward Telmo Zarra, who was the record goalscorer of the Spanish League
until Lionel Messi broke it in 2010, served too to demonstrate the
impetuousness of national character. After the 1950 World Cup group stage
against England, what came to be called “Zarra’s goal” was celebrated as “a
splendid demonstration to the whole world that the traditional Hispanic
virtues of passion, aggression, fury, virility and impetuosity have been
completely recovered in the ‘New Spain’ born out of that bloody conflict –
the Civil War” (Burns, 2012, p. 139).
Unlike center-right conservative Basque nationalism and the Basque
Nationalist Party, the separatist group ETA did not systematically endorse
sport for its nationalist purposes. The relationship between radical leftist
nationalism and soccer has been rather ambiguous. Being a Marxist
organization, ETA considered soccer an exploitative, capitalist “opium of the
people,” as indeed the Franco regime used it (Shaw et al., 1987). At the same
time, many Basque players sympathized with leftist abertzale pro-
independence nationalism, which for a while was difficult to divorce from
the orbit of ETA. For example, the legendary Athletic Bilbao goalkeeper
Iribar was involved in the politics of Herri Batasuna in the late 1970s, a
party that was later outlawed for being considered the political wing of ETA.
It was also Iribar who, with Kortabarria and the rest of the Athletic Bilbao
and Real Sociedad roster, produced one of the most iconic images of post-
Franco Spain: in late 1976 the two teams and their captains displayed the
Basque national flag, the ikurrina, before a game, when regional cultural
symbols were still banned. The event was described as a “separatist orgy”
(MacClancy, 1996, p. 193). At the same time, ETA later blackmailed at least
one soccer player, Bixente Lizarazu, to pay the so-called “revolutionary tax”
in the 1990s, and there might have been more. And finally, in yet another
I
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twist, the 1980s witnessed the emergence of radical fan clubs in the Basque
Country that had links to, and ideological affinities with, Basque leftist
separatism.
Race, ethnicity, nationality, and territorial demarcation in
soccer
As is well-known in the world of soccer, Athletic Club fields Basque players
only. According to its statute, Athletic Club fields players who were either
born in the Basque Country or raised there and played in one of its youth
academies. As such, an Athletic line-up is a literal embodiment of the
Basque Country, and each new player ignites important debates about its
borders. The invariance of this tradition is only apparent, however. The
signing or not signing of players have been important rituals of territorial
demarcation, with shifting geographical imaginaries that have included
Great Britain, Bilbao, Bizkaia province, the Basque Autonomous
Community in Spain, the historical Basque Country Euskal Herria
stretching over to France, African immigrant communities, and the Basque
diasporas of the Americas.
The Bilbao industrial elite considered British sport as the harbinger of
civilization. “An Englishman is never a foreigner in Bilbao,” I was told once
by a descendent of the nationalist-industrialist Sota family, whose members
were particularly known for their Anglophilia at the beginning of the
twentieth century. Alejandro de la Sota cultivated a bonhomie in the London
life of cocktails and clubs but was an inveterate bilbaíno and admired soccer
for what he saw were intrinsically British penchants for culture, art, science,
philosophy, and romance. “To have a kick is Shakespeare, it’s Nelson, it’s
Oxford, it’s Canterbury,” he jubilated in his book on the spread of soccer in
the Basque Country. “It is, in the end, the old and glorious England!” (1932,
p. 154). He considered the importing of the British game as one of “the
triumphs of Basque internationalism, which always deserves to be sealed
with our own personality” (Sota, 1932, p. 299). In Bilbao, anecdotes abound
about the English soccer player who came to work, settled down, and would
not return for his love of local life. Soon, however, British players dropped
off the rosters of Athletic, while coaching remained open to internationals.
Bilbao’s most revered British figure was Mr. Pentland, who played for ten
*
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years and coached for seven at Athletic in the 1920s. The “Bowler Hat’s”
sayings, mannerism, and behaviors are still fondly remembered in Bilbao.
In the first half of the twentieth century, “Basque” meant Bizkaian from
the perspective of Athletic Club, which is a definition that resonated with
that of Sabino Arana, founder of the Basque Nationalist Party (1895). The
1940s and 1950s were the Club’s first Golden Age, with rosters of players
almost exclusively from Bilbao and Vizcaya province. The great successes
of these decades bred important imaginaries of Basque identity: the idea that
one can be champion with a roster of players de la tierra, from the land. The
1960s and 1970s showed regression and plummeting performance, only to
return to a second Golden Age in the 1980s as Athletic Club won two league
titles in an increasingly sophisticated and modern football. The lineups of
these champion teams featured players from all the Basque provinces
situated in Spain: Araba, Gipuzkoa, Nafarroa, Bizkaia. It was with the end of
the Franco dictatorship that regions went through the re-nationalization of
identity. Athletic gained an increasingly nationalist character, a process
fomented by contextual factors that characterized the 1980s: a general
emergence of nationalist sentiments in the liberating atmosphere of post-
Franco Spain, the renewed push for a regional Basque national team, and the
emergence of radical Basque nationalist fan clubs.
An important shift in signing policy has been the consolidation of
performative identities as opposed to the birth-based primordial ones, which
inserts action and agency into processes of identification as opposed to
uncontrollable birth places and blood-based belonging. In the 1960s,
footballer Chus Pereda, who was born outside the Basque Country but lived
and played in Bizkaia from an early age on, was turned down by Athletic.
Lázaro Sarabia, brother of the celebrated striker Manolo of the 1980s
winning team was also rejected by Athletic under the same circumstances.
Today, this player would have no problem; one no longer has to be born
Basque, one can become Basque by cultural and social embeddedness.
The 1996–97 signing of Bixente Lizarazu, from the French Basque area,
served to ritually confirm the boundaries of the historical Basque Country
consisting of four provinces in Spain and three in France. While the
historical Euskal Herria is not politically recognized in any way, as opposed
to the autonomous status of the Basque Autonomous Community in Spain or
Navarre, it is an important political imaginary particularly for left-wing
nationalists. Lizarazu felt uncomfortable with what he saw was “so much
-


theater” of identity, as media interest in his “Basqueness” was
overwhelming. Additionally, ETA sent Lizarazu an anonymous letter asking
him for “revolutionary tax,” that is ransom money, for playing in the French
national team and defending “the colors of an enemy state” (20minutos,
2007). Lizarazu felt manipulated and trapped in a political game, and
departed after just one season.
It remains to be seen if the Basque diasporas overseas, many of which
have very strong traditions of maintaining Basque identity and culture
(Douglass, 2005), may become part of this Basque geographical imaginary.
So far, the rejection of Uruguay-born Diego Forlán in 2004 indicates that
being a Basque-American, for example, might not be Basque enough.
Forlán’s Basque link was a grandmother immigrating from Hondarribia to
Argentina and then Uruguay. The player went on to become one of the most
valuable strikers of the Spanish Liga with Atlético Madrid and the 2010
World Cup Golden Ball Winner. Questionnaire surveys among Athletic Club
members show that they are open to the extension of “Basqueness” to the
diasporas (Ortiz de Lazcano, 2010). Had Forlán wanted to sign with Athletic
after his great successes, the result might have been different.
African immigrant communities in the Basque Country, on the other
hand, have had their breakthrough. “Iñaki Williams made history on a night
when he wasn’t even expecting to make it on the pitch,” ESPN started its
special report in September 2019 on Athletic Club’s signing of a home-
grown player of African origins on a nine-year contract (Krichko, 2019).
Williams scored in the ninth minute in the Olympic Stadium of Turin. “I
scored! I scored!” he screamed exuberantly. While a goal is celebrated
everywhere, debuts and goals in a game that is not a final rarely make
history. In Bilbao, however, there are some extra-competitive considerations
that can turn a winter night into a historic spectacle: Williams was the first
black man to have scored for Athletic. In the 1950s, the Guinea-born but
Bilbao-raised player Miguel Jones was rejected by Athletic on grounds that
he was not born in Vizcaya province, although many think it was an easy
excuse as the real problem was his blackness. After the fleeting debut of
another black player, Jonás Ramalho, son of an African father and Basque
mother, Athletic Club consolidated its acknowledgment of African identities
as part of Basque ones through Williams. That night, Williams’ goal was
celebrated as a milestone event for Bilbao’s other iñakis: African immigrant
street vendors. For one glaring instance, the distance between Iñaki on the


screen and the iñakis of his community who watched him longingly in the
bars where they sold jewelry did not seem that abysmal.
Basques needed Williams just as much as Williams needed the Basques.
Amidst widespread admiration, Athletic’s Basque-only philosophy has
occasionally attracted criticisms of racist exclusion. Castillo (2007)
suggested that one way to avoid such criticisms was to re-brand Athletic in
the fashion of locally grown produce, something like Eusko Label. But now,
Williams was proof that the club’s line-up reflected not a racialist ideology,
but the changing demographic realities of Bilbao, of which immigrants were
a sizable part. In a strict sense, this is not that historical. Bilbao attracted a
great influx of immigrants throughout the twentieth century, from the first
British players to the eventual dominance of Spanish last names on the
roster. But Williams was a black man, and the widespread fascination with
his case shows how hard racial categories die. The zeal with which
Williams’ “Basqueness” was asserted in the media both by birth right and
upbringing, coupled with ubiquitous qualifications like “black diamond,”
“black pearl,” or “black star,” ultimately ended up confirming Williams’
position outside of normative Basqueness; the media’s “aggressive
colorblindness” was “ultimately just as othering” (Aquino, 2017, pp. 130–
131).
The Basque-only philosophy and its sense of difference resonate with
deep-rooted imaginaries of Basque exceptionalism, going back to a
distinguished line of past-century archeologists, linguists, folklorists, and
cultural anthropologists, who were intrigued by the real and imagined
mysteries of Basque origins. Prefixes like “non-,” “pre-,” and “proto-”
constructed the Basques as a people who preceded all others in the area, who
spoke a non-Indo-European (and pre-Indo-European) language, whose
customs, traditions, and gender relations were unlike those of their
neighbors, and whose ancient political structure of decision making
constituted the first proto-democracy. A similar sense of difference came
from historical local rights and autonomies (fueros), as well as the title of
“collective nobility” (hidalguía colectiva) granted to all Basques in
exchange for border defense. Later, in the twentieth century, this sense of
distinction was a central element in the more formal developments of
Basque nationalism.
While Athletic Club’s Basque-only philosophy has been stretched,
defined, and re-defined over a hundred years, women’s bodies still can’t
7
-A


quite enter this collective imaginary of national representation. While
Athletic femenino, the women’s team founded in 2003, also recruits Basque
players only, this is a fact that goes uncontemplated at best, and unknown at
worst, in spite of the great successes of this program in women’s soccer in
Spain. Female soccer bodies are often conceptualized as unfeminine and
inferior at play (es ni fútbol, ni femenino “neither soccer, nor female” is a
disparaging 
statement 
one 
still 
hears), 
and 
traditional 
Basque
conceptualizations of strength and play also hamper female players’
acceptance among older generations. Indarra “force,” as mentioned, is
considered a masculine trait. Furthermore, in the Basque language, there is a
distinction between bipolar, competitive games, and non-competitive
children’s games: joko and jolas. The competitive, agonic, bipolar joko play
is a men’s affair: gambling, playing mus (Basque card game), pelota,
bertsolaria (improvisational poetry), or rural sports like wood cutting, stone
lifting, cattle herding. These competitions have taken place in public: in bars,
plazas, stadiums. From a traditional perspective, women are conceptualized
as outside the joko model: woman as a jokolari “player” is a cultural
“oddity” that makes her “conspicuously abnormal, an evidently man-nish
woman” (Zulaika, 1988, p. 180). Instead, woman is traditionally closer to the
jolas: the non-competitive children’s games that take place in and around the
home. Indeed, a visit to a women’s game on the club’s training grounds
reveals that fútbol femenino is embedded in a feminized rural context, and is
largely a family event, as opposed to the tough masculinity of the urban
stadium.
Conclusion: whose Basque country?
Basque debates about the borders of the Basque Country often lead to
impasses that make it difficult to arrive at collective self-definition, and may
sabotage the whole project of symbolic territorial demarcation. A case that
exemplifies this is the unofficial Basque national soccer team. Historically,
Team Euskadi had a great role in the Civil War against fascism as a
representative of the legitimately elected and then exiled Basque
Autonomous Government. With the outbreak of the war the Spanish soccer
league was suspended, but players tried to stay active and friendlies were
played among the local teams that sympathized with the Basque Nationalist
Party (Unzueta, 1999, p. 164). The aim was to raise money for an aircraft for


the Basque armed forces that were fighting on the Republican side. Such
was the success of these games that Basque Government President Aguirre,
who himself had been a soccer player, decided to convoke a Basque national
team and send it abroad to raise money. Team Euskadi went on a three-year-
long tour to countries like Russia, Poland, the Soviet Union, Finland,
Norway, Denmark, Mexico, Chile, and Cuba.
However, the unofficial Basque national team has also revealed
antagonisms about just what, and whose Basque Country, the team should
represent. The team has been variously called Team North (1915), Vasconia
(1930–1931), Team Euzkadi (1937–39), Team Euskadi (1979–2007), Team
Euskal Herria (2008), and Euskal Selekzioa (2010–present). The frequent
name change reflects the highly contested ideological and geographical
imaginaries of the Basque Country. For example, the seasons 2007–2009
were spent arguing over the names Team Euskadi versus Team Euskal
Herria, until the players signed a petition that they would only play the
traditional Christmas game under the name Team Euskal Herria. The debate
over Euskadi or Euskal Herria was clearly over the legitimate political
boundaries of the Basque Country. The center-right Basque Nationalist Party
(PNV), the leftist Socialist Party (PSOE), and the right-wing Popular Party
(PP) agreed in their support of Team Euskadi, which signified the Basque
Autonomous Community (BAC) comprising three Spanish Basque
provinces of Araba, Bizkaia, and Gipuzkoa. It was also the historical
designation that Sabino Arana, founder of the PNV, used for the Basque
Country. The left-wing Basque Solidarity (EA), United Left (IU-EB), and
the Basque Nationalist Action (ANV) parties supported Team Euskal Herria,
a name for the historical Basque Country made up of four Spanish (CAP
plus Navarre) and three French Basque provinces. The team was to represent
the Basque nation, but any attempt to pin down the boundaries of that nation
failed. The 2009 Christmas game got cancelled, and the team disbanded for
the lack of a name.
Today, the Basque Country is resting from its decades-long Troubles.
Except for the PNV’s 2001 failed Ibarretxe Plan to reform the Basque
Statute of Autonomy including the possibility of self-determination, and
symbolic referendums on the left, no serious efforts have been channeled
toward the dormant question of independence. Revealingly, in October 2019,
the Basque Nationalist Party-lead regional government refused to sign the
Llotja de Mar declaration on the right of self-determination signed by 12


regional pro-independence entities in Spain. As in Catalonia, the bulk of
nation-building efforts have been pursued by civil society. Change in
political dispositions is also visible in the body symbolism NGOs adopt, for
example Gure Esku Dago’s shift from the militant fist to an open palm. As
Basque non-governmental organizations reach out to their counterparts in
Scotland and Catalonia to promote the right to vote, sports and, increasingly,
gastronomy are deemed appropriate channels through which to pursue
peaceful objectives.
Acknowledgment
All figures in this chapter are covered by a CC-BY-SA 3.0 license:
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en.
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Chapter 6
Visions of building, specters of
collapse
Alternative routes to secessionism in Catalonia
Mariann Vaczi
Introduction
The 2019 December Clásico between FC Barcelona and Real Madrid turned
into a battlefield in a literal sense. By then, street fights in Barcelona had
become somewhat of a regular occurrence. As a result of the October 2019
Constitutional Court’s decision to imprison pro-independence politicians for
9 to 13 years, Catalan independentists blockaded the airport and the streets,
camped out on squares, organized demonstrations, and sometimes clashed
with riot police. The Clásico, already re-scheduled in the hopes of
decreasing tensions, was anticipated with foreboding. The policing of the
event was extraordinary, fans were made to open even their sandwiches at
the entrance, and everyone looked forward to what was imagined to be a
pitch invasion. But when the 17:14 minute mark of the first half passed, the
moment when fans chant In-inde-independència!, commemorating Spanish
takeover at the 1714 War of Spanish Succession, nothing happened. When
the same minute passed in the second half, I imagined organizers and police
emitted a sigh of relief.
Five minutes before the end, however, we knew that something was amiss
outside the stadium. A helicopter was circling over the pitch, smoke was
pouring over the walls of the stadium, and the stench of burning plastic


penetrated the upper terraces. The loudspeaker kept announcing that fans
should exit at the northern entrances, and avoid the southern ones, as well as
the streets. After a long wait and menacingly crowded situations, we finally
exited Camp Nou.
The streets were unrecognizable. What had been the site of peaceful,
festive political demonstrations before the game were now a steaming,
burning memento. The asphalt was torn up and hoarded into a heap of
stones. The ashes of what used to be a big garbage container were simmering
in the middle of the road. About 50 yards ahead, another one was burning in
tremendous flames, and another 50 yards ahead, a few young people were
dragging a third one into the middle of the road to prepare it for its burning.
The absurdity of the situation was enhanced by the 95,000 fans peacefully
walking by, or taking selfies with the flames. Around the burning container,
a large crowd gathered and sang the Catalan national anthem Els Segadors,
lending the whole spectacle an eerie serenity as if it was some urban
sacrificial ritual.
I thought of the helicopter pilot circling above Camp Nou during the
game, and wished I could have seen what I imagined was the most striking
spectacle of all: the iconic green field policed to the maximum and watched
by the whole world next to the dark and smoke-filled battlefield outside,
separated only by the slim contour of the stadium wall. From above it must
have been, or so I imagined with Walter Benjamin, a “dialectical image”
(Buck-Morss, 1991): a constellation that by its shocking juxtapositions
yields some kind of illumination.
Another dialectical image comes to mind from another Clásico three
years earlier. As the Barça anthem started, the Camp Nou stands displayed a
curious formation as fans lifted up cardboard mosaic squares: the shape of a
human tower. Human tower building (castells) is a 200-year-old traditional
sport originating in the south of Catalonia. The breathtaking edifices as high
as nine or ten human “floors” including a thousand plus performers have
become a major cultural icon for the current independence movement due to
their integrative ethos, collaborative body technique, and risk-taking
ambition (Vaczi, 2016). The meaning of that mosaic went unnoticed for the
hundreds of millions of spectators globally. For Catalans, however, it was a
wink and nod, an understanding that FC Barcelona sympathized with the
region’s “emancipatory nationalism” (Guibernau, 2013) embodied by the
Sisyphean efforts of nation building across the town squares of Catalonia.


The spectacles we organize bring space alive. In both cases above, Camp
Nou collapsed alternative routes to secessionist mobilization into a
dialectical imagery whose constituent juxtapositions promised to cast light
on each other, and on Catalonia’s secessionist fervor. On the one hand, there
was football’s global visibility and its historical depth as a site of Catalan
identity under Franco, resonating with the bourgeois origins of Catalan
nationalism and its capitalist mentality. On the other hand, there was the
castell’s grasp of people in the street, of the left-leaning working and middle
classes who seek low-cost sociality through Catalonia’s thriving popular
culture and folklore. A basic assessment of Catalan secessionism may be
captured by a shaky human tower (Figure 6.1): it is a vision of building for
half the region, and a specter of collapse for the other half. Catalonia’s
nationalist transformations may be traced through their preferred body
techniques, and this chapter will be organized around three major themes:
physical culture as a site of meaning and vocabulary for nationalist
ideologies; as a site of mobilization for nation building; and as a site of the
erosion of Spanish state sovereignty.




Figure 6.1
The Castellers de Vilafranca, building a record high, ten-
level 
tower 
in 
2013. 
The 
Catalan 
independence
movement has deployed castells 
for 
nation-building
purposes 
due 
to 
their 
iconic 
body 
technique 
and
mobilizing potential as an old cultural performance.
Source: Wikimedia Commons. Author: Diari AVUI.
Physical culture from the Catalan Renaixença (1840s–
1880s) to the Second Republic (1931–1939)
Catalonia, in the northeast of Spain, has claimed independence or greater
autonomy with varying degrees of intensity. Today, it has an advanced
autonomy as a result of the 1978 Constitutional establishment of 17
autonomous communities in Spain, which granted each community a
regional government and varying degrees of freedom with regard to
education, law enforcement, or finances. The Catalan language is co-official.
However, accumulating grievances over cultural and symbolic matters, and
the Spanish Constitutional Court’s rejection of a new financial agreement in
2010 aggravated state–region relations. Analysts agree that the Catalan
independence movement was driven less by party politics than by bottom-up
organizations: NGOs, civil society, and cultural entities. Fifteen years ago,
only about 20 percent of Catalans supported the idea of independence
(Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas, 2005). In 2015, however, the first
pro-independence regional government was elected, with approximately half
of voters supporting independence. While the Spanish Constitution disallows
referenda on the question of independence, Catalans have voted on several
symbolic, non-binding ones. The 2017 referendum resulted in clashes with
the police, hundreds of injuries, and the imprisonment of rank-and-file
regional governmental politicians.
Sports, both traditional and modern, were at the forefront of Catalanist
mobilization. The first body practice to have been associated with Catalanist
ideology was the sardana dance, as both emerged simultaneously during the
nineteenth century. The use of folklore and performance as a vehicle for
constructing national and vernacular imaginaries was proper to the
nineteenth-century nation-building mechanisms Europe-wide, when ruling
elites discovered the legitimizing, authenticating power of language and folk
elements (Bauman and Briggs, 2003; Wilson, 1973). As somewhat of an


invented tradition (Brandes, 1990), the sardana dance was standardized
during the Industrial Revolution, and spread during the Catalan Renaixença
(1840s–1880s), an epoch of cultural and linguistic revival. As Martí i Pérez
observes, intellectual circles felt “the necessity to bestow a weightier
significance to the traditional heritage of the land,” and the sardana offered a
“symbiosis between a musical and a choreographic product and a specific
idea” (1994, pp. 40–42). The ideals of nineteenth-century bourgeois
Catalanism were perfectly embodied by this restrained circle dance that
anyone may join: harmony, democracy, simplicity, and community. The
dance even reflected a “cultural intimacy,” to borrow Herzfeld’s (2005)
notion of embarrassing local idiosyncrasies: Catalans as being “selfish
capitalist accumulators” (Brandes, 1990, p. 33). While human towers already
existed at this point, they cannot have become appropriate nationalist
symbols due to their associations with rowdy, working-class, masculine
bravado. For the human tower to become a symbol for secessionist
integration and nation building today, it had to go through a process of
gentrification, that is the integration of women and middle-class
professionals, in the 1980s.
Generally, sports spread to the Iberian Peninsula from Great Britain as a
corollary to commercial and industrial exchanges between the two countries
during the Industrial Revolution. The first gimnasios and British-style sport
clubs served as venues for urban bourgeois sociality. The industrial elite
embraced sport as it resonated with its entrepreneurial spirit, risk taking,
leadership, and work ethic (Magro, 2011, p. 98). The first football clubs
were established in the late nineteenth century, at the same time that the
emergence and symbolic codification of Basque and Catalan nationalist
movements occurred (Conversi, 2000). These movements, led by local
industrial elites, embraced sport (Shobe, 2008a), which by the 1930s was
considered a sign of ethnic and racial fitness. The emblematic FC Barcelona
president Josep Sunyol, who had been a politician in the Republican Left
party that formed the first Catalan autonomous government in 1931, wrote
this about sport and citizenship in his newspaper Rambla: “To speak of sport
is to speak of race, enthusiasm, and the optimistic struggle of youth. To
speak of citizenship is to speak of the Catalan civilization, liberalism,
democracy, and spiritual endeavour” (in Burns, 2012, p. 88). Subsequently,
FC Barcelona supported the first Statute of Autonomy in 1932.


Physical culture also affected women’s roles and ideals of femininity. The
bourgeois elite’s nineteenth-century vision of the ideal woman was the
archetype of “the eternal feminine,” and the cult of domesticity: female
gracefulness, modesty, purity, and moral superiority. It promoted sports that
would achieve this ideal. The most celebrated manifestation of this ideal was
Lilí Álvarez, an Olympian tennis player who was considered to have
possessed “that Spanish grace” that made her so attractive in Spain and
beyond (Jaime Bartrolí in Torrano et al., 2013, p. 231). Later in her prologue
to the Spanish edition of Betty Friedan’s Feminine Mystique, Álvarez argued
for women’s sport to help women liberate themselves from what is
essentially an inferior and dependent position (Torrano et al., 2013, p. 248).
It was, at the same time, the urban elite that subverted the ideal of female
domesticity, as young women grew up in the emancipating urban
atmosphere of clubs, cocktails, and foxtrot. The first Catalan female
Olympian Rosa Torras, Lilí Álvarez’s team mate at the 1924 Olympic
Games, received a particularly libertarian upbringing from her bourgeois
intellectual father, who decided to raise her “on the margins of all that
sanctimoniousness that was imposed on all women, and allowed her to wear
pants, comb her hair ‘à la garçonne’ and smoke cigarettes with long cigarette
holders” (La Vanguardia in Torrano et al., 2013, p. 227). Sports were
accessible to the daughters of these elite, who cultivated a sense of their
body at Swiss ski resorts, British tennis clubs, or German spa towns.
The Second Spanish Republic (1931–1939) changed the bourgeois
hegemony over physical culture – over most realms of culture, for that
matter. In his Homage to Catalonia (1938), Orwell describes Barcelona in
1936 as “a town where the working class was in the saddle” (p. 6) The
Second Spanish Republic, which ended with Franco’s coup and takeover,
seemed to Orwell as “really a worker’s State” (p. 6). Besides leftist
symbology displayed everywhere, servile forms of speech disappeared, as
did gestures that signified hierarchies, and there were no “well-dressed”
people in the streets at all. Even Real Madrid dropped the word Real
(“royal” in Spanish) from its name to better align with the leftist spirit of the
times.
The left-wing social and political climate helped sport reach the non-elite
sectors, workers, universities, and women across Catalonia, and Spain
(Martí, 2011). In particular, Catalonia spearheaded the spread of
mountaineering and hiking clubs, which later turned into partisan-style


pockets of ideological resistance under Franco in the region, as well as in the
Basque Country (Sullivan, 2015). Sport associations fostered such wide-
ranging political ideologies as communism, anarcho-syndicalism, Marxist
socialism, ethno-nationalism, and feminism. Many openly embraced
political ideologies: the Federación Cultural Deportiva Obrera was
communist, the Comité Català pro Esport Popular was Republican and
Catalan nationalist, the Salud y Cultura was socialist. Some women’s
gimnasios, such as the emblematic Club Femení i d’Esports de Barcelona
(1928), were organized around the feminist agenda to provide a platform of
“civic, Republican sociability” (Martí, 2011, p. 157) for the modern woman
who was independent, responsible, and Republican. Highly revealing of the
leftist spirit of Barcelona was the organization of the 1936 People’s
Olympiad (Olimpiada Popular) by an international alliance of anti-fascist
popular movements in protest of the 1936 Nazi Games. Many athletes
already in town, the Olympiad was canceled due to the irruption of Franco’s
nationalist forces, and the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939).
Sport under Franco (1939–1975)
The ensuing Franco dictatorship (1939–1975) and its conservative national
Catholicism impacted both men and women’s sport. The regime’s
centralizing pressures were ensured by state control over sport and
homogenizing propaganda such as the promotion of the Spanish national
team Furia Española as the celebration of the Hispanic values of virility,
impetuousness, and race. The Franco regime tried to obliterate regional
rivalries, except in the realm of football, which served two purposes: an
opiate for the people to placate regional discontent, and a tool of nation
building for the state (Shobe, 2008b, p. 338).
For Catalans, FC Barcelona was a site where Catalan identity could be
discreetly imagined, and a space where Catalan could be quietly spoken
amidst the general oppression of regional languages and culture. “Barça is
like other folkloric manifestations of our people,” Jordi Pujol, the president
of the first post-Franco Catalan regional government said; “a reserve we can
draw on when other sources dry out, when the doors of normality are closed
to us” (in Burns, 2012, p. 245). Under Franco, football club presidents were
appointed by the regime; voting for presidents was banned in football clubs,
as it would have provided the opportunity for an uncomfortable comparison


with the lack of democracy in the national order (Shaw et al., 1987, p. 122).
FC Barcelona, however, found ways to exercise voting on minor affairs that
fell outside the vision of state control, which helped maintain a spirit of
democracy.
The Franco regime’s homogenizing tendencies also affected folklore and
culture. As Ortiz writes, the regime’s intention was to “turn regionalism into
an aesthetic and emotional element, thus making regional diversity an
unproblematic aspect of the nation” (1999, p. 488). Regional folklore and
traditional sports like human tower building were in general tolerated by the
regime as long as they did not carry subversive political meanings.
Catalonia’s arguably oldest sport rivalry, the one between the two oldest
human tower teams in the small town of Valls, shows the extent of Francoist
ideological homogenization in everyday life. The rivalry, namely, resonated
with social identities that the regime wanted silenced: Republican liberalism.
The human tower rivalry was problematic to the regime because it inserted
ambiguity and diversity of opinions (such is the nature of rivalries) where
the social and political should have been sutured. The Francoist City Hall of
Valls reacted by forcedly uniting the two rival teams, and aimed to turn the
sport into the sign of a “United, Great and Free Spain” where there was
“neither left nor right factions, only the true unity of Spaniards” (Diario
español in Cervelló Salvadó, 2015, pp. 22–23). Human towers symbolized
the “firm foundation” on which “the edifice of the emerging Spain” would
be built (Félipe Sanz in Cervelló Salvadó, 2015, p. 22). A few years later,
however, the Unified Team once again split as it could not contain its
members’ ideological differences. Against the oppressive unification
projects of fascism, sport rivalry carved out a certain openness of the social
and the political.
For women, the conservative Catholic agenda of the dictatorship was
transmitted to the population through the Sección Femenina or Women’s
Section of the Fascist Falange party, which advocated traditional roles and
activities for women. The movement endorsed sports for creating strong
mothers who are physically fit for bearing many children, and physical
education was extended over the general population. The spread of physical
education for women had a dual effect as it controlled the female body in
some senses, and liberated it in others. Sport ended up undermining the
official discourse on the role and capacities of women, and lent economic
agency to physical education teachers; women learned how to take care of


their bodies, and “exercise muscles no one even dared to speak about” (Ofer,
2017, p. 52).
With Franco’s death and the subsequent Transition to democracy, regional
identities, languages, and cultures once again had greater liberty to foster. In
the realm of modern sports, this is the period of regional re-nationalization,
or the strengthening of peripheral nationalisms through sport, particularly
soccer (Llopis Goig, 2008). The liberating atmosphere of the Transition had
an impact on women’s body culture too, which was most visible through the
incorporation of women in the world of human towers. The Francoist ideal
of female cleanliness and body culture was predicated on gender
segregation. Women’s entrance in human tower building was a breakthrough
not only because it allowed them to be active agents in the town square – the
public sphere par excellence in Mediterranean cultures – but because it also
allowed female bodies to be treated like male ones. Formerly considered to
be a practice of peripheral, working-class gents de pet i rot (people of burps
and farts), human tower building is about close body contact, touches and
grabs, sweat and the dirt of the street. Paradoxically, however, it was
precisely “all that filth” that granted female bodies equal presence, as
protagonists, in public culture.
The Barcelona Games (1992)
“If Barcelona only had 400,000 inhabitants today, the Catalan issue wouldn’t
exist,” Joan Tarrida, owner of the Catalan publishing house Galaxia
Gutenberg said in an interview (in Minder 2017, p. 156). Catalan
secessionism would not exist, or certainly not to the degree that it does, if it
had not been for the city’s greatest international achievement: the 1992
Olympic Games, which turned Barcelona into not just a second capital, but a
symbolic equal to Madrid.
The Barcelona Games are all the more important considering that Madrid
has never been able to host the Olympics. On the eve of September 7, 2013,
Spain was awaiting with great hope the announcement by the International
Olympic Committee of its decision for the 2020 Summer Olympic Games.
To the great surprise and shock of Spanish officials, Madrid lost its bid to
Tokyo, with the Japanese economy and the fight against doping cited as the
main reasons. It was an embarrassing defeat – the third in a row – as Madrid
had bid and been rejected for the 2012 and 2016 Games. Madrid Mayor Ana


Botella’s over-enthusiastic speech pleading the capital’s case, with a heavy
English accent, went viral and became the subject of infinite mockery, as she
tried to sell the country as fun-loving with the phrase that made it into disco
music and onto T-shirts across Spain: “there is nothing quite like a relaxing
cup of café con leche [coffee with milk] in Plaza Mayor.” With an insecure
economy, and corruption scandals within her own Popular Party, the phrase
felt not meritorious, but an elitist insult to the 6.5 million unemployed (26
percent) in Spain who could not quite afford such pleasures themselves.
It was a crushing blow for the Spanish team in yet another sense: in a
climate of intensifying secessionism, Catalan schadenfreude was rubbed in
their face, for Barcelona had organized their Games with almost
unanimously acknowledged smashing success. Barcelona turned into a
major tourist destination due to its rebuilt beach front and renovated
infrastructure. The Madrid fiasco was announced only a few days before the
Catalan National Day (Diada), when people formed a 400-km-long human
chain that cut off the region from Spain in an act of territorial demarcation.
In spite of its eventual success, the paz olímpica [“Olympic peace”]
appeared very fragile during the years of its organization, as the event
became a battlefield between a wide range of ideologies and interests in
Spain. On the right, there was Juan Antonio Samaranch, President of the
International Olympic Committee, who was instrumental in winning the bid
– but he was also a former sport minister under Franco. For the socialist-led
Spanish government, the Olympic Games were a matter of national prestige
after the 1982 Soccer World Cup organized by Spain. The World Cup was
thwarted by the intensification of ETA violence during the early years of the
fragile post-Franco democracy, and the Spanish national team’s performance
was disappointing. For the moderately nationalist, center-right Catalan
government led by Jordi Pujol, the Games would serve to enhance the
prestige of the region. Socialist Party-affiliated Barcelona Mayor Pasqual
Maragall hoped for the renewal and modernization of Barcelona as a result
of the urban transformations necessary for the Games. Finally, the more
radical segments of Catalan nationalism wanted to Catalanize the Games for
their own benefit.
These Catalanist actors consisted of NGOs and activist campaign groups
who demanded a greater and more respectable presence of Catalan symbols:
a dignified position for the Catalan flag, official status for the Catalan
language, the recognition and separate treatment of Catalan sport


federations, the separation of Catalan athletes under a Catalan flag, and the
playing of the Catalan anthem under a Catalan flag when a Catalan athlete
wins gold. For years, Catalan nationalists put pressure on organizers by
occasionally providing a foretaste of possible disruption during the Games
through whistling incidents, boycotts, banners, and smuggling things in the
Olympic venues. In September 1989 for example, the Spanish king was
jeered at the inauguration of the refurbished Olympic Stadium. At the
reception ceremony of the arrival of the Olympic flame in Catalonia, a
militant managed to display a large “Freedom for Catalonia” banner which,
while the Spanish national television edited it out, swept across international
media, noting that the Barcelona Olympic Games were hosted by two
countries really. A week before the start, at the dress rehearsal attended by
the public, the Spanish flag received a mortifying, loud whistling. In the end
and quite miraculously, all parties emerged content: the Games were an
international success without incidents for Spain, and a Barcelona/Catalonia
event for the region: “for the first time for centuries, Catalan national
symbols ranked equally with Spanish ones in an official act” (Hargreaves,
2000, p. 98).
The organizers managed to make the Barcelona Games be seen as first
and foremost Catalan, then international, and finally Spanish through a
brilliant maneuver of politically unproblematic ethnic symbols. They
incorporated folkloric physical culture, the sardana dance and human towers
(castells). Both were local symbols that were intimately Catalan, but
unthreatening to Madrid. These Catalan symbols connected to the
internationalism of the Games, and carefully bypassed links to Spain at the
inauguration ceremony. The circle dance sardana lent itself readily to form
the five Olympic rings, and the 12 human towers honored the 12 members of
the European Community. The transmission of internationalism through
Catalan, and not Spanish symbols revealed that Catalonia saw itself
belonging to the international community before Spain, an allegiance that
continues to be important in today’s secessionist context.
Catalan sport for “Yes”
Catalonia’s contemporary shift toward the idea of independence resulted
from an accumulating bunch of grievances with Madrid in political, cultural,
and social matters. After the Franco dictatorship ended in 1975, Spain


embarked on its democratic Transition. The new Spanish Constitution was
drafted, put to referendum, and approved by 90 percent of Catalonian voters
in 1978. In the process of formulating the Constitution, Catalonia and other
regions, including the Basque Country, pushed for and won the Statute of
Autonomy, which every other major political force approved. Under this
statute, Catalonia held its first autonomous elections in 1980, and formed the
Catalonian parliament and autonomous government.
Since at least the 1990s, however, Catalonia has experienced growing
tensions with Madrid in the realms of economics and culture. These have
included Madrid’s push for Spanish-language instruction in Catalonian
public education, difficult institutional relations and debates over linguistic
policy, and the battle over the Salamanca papers (Catalan Civil War
government documents that Catalans demanded be returned from
Salamanca). The insecurities of the global economy, Catalonia’s economic
decline, and unemployment nourished the idea that Espanya ens roba
(“Spain is robbing us”) by collecting more taxes from the region than what is
returned at redistribution.
Issues of identity and economy came together in the political realm in
2005, when the Catalan government accepted a new Statute of Autonomy
that would extend local financial powers. The Spanish General Courts,
however, rejected it. In 2006, Catalonia proposed a new statute, which was
once again rejected four years later in 2010. Besides denying new fiscal
autonomies, the Constitutional Court declared that the use of “nation” for
Catalonia was unconstitutional, for that word is reserved for Spain only, and
regions may only refer to themselves as “nationalities.” Everything about
this decision felt humiliating to Catalans: the time it took (four years), the
rejection of local decision making by the Generalitat, and the denial of
national subjectivity. In July 2010, more than a million Catalans went to the
streets in response to the Constitutional Court decision under the banner “We
are a nation, We decide.” It was the beginning of years-long civil society
activity that eventually pushed formal politics toward the idea of
independence.
The 2010 pro-independence rally was particularly impacting because it
took place on July 10, the eve of the 2010 Soccer World Cup final between
Spain and the Netherlands. In its splendors and miseries, the Spanish
national team has been considered a political allegory. Historically, the
underperformance of the selección, variously known as the Spanish Fury or


the Red One, was often attributed to the lack of patriotism on the part of
players from ethno-regional peripheries. After this history of conspicuous
underperformance, Spain once again had a chance to fix history and become
World Champions. The tiki taka playing style of the Catalan players
dominated the national team that won the historic title. That particular night
before the game, with over a million Catalans claiming independence in the
streets, the question of what would become of Spain without one of its
greatest economic motors, Catalonia, gained another frightful dimension:
what would become of the Spanish national team without Catalan soccer?
Catalan athletes and clubs have been remarkably vocal about
independence (Whigham et al., 2019; Vaczi et al., 2019), the right to vote,
the 2019 sentencing, and the ensuing riots. “Although they won’t say it,”
London 2012 Olympic swimmer Claudia Dasca stated, “80% of the sport
world wants independence” (Marca, 2017). Elite athletes and coaches have
campaigned for “yes,” such as football coach Pep Guardiola, the basketball
player brothers Pau and Marc Gasol, cyclist Anna Ramírez, footballers Marc
Crosas, Oriol Rosell, and Ángel Rangel. Pep Guardiola has been particularly
vocal about Spain–Catalonia relations. He was possibly the internationally
most well-known face of the yellow-ribbon campaign, which started in
October 2017 as a symbol of solidarity with Catalan politicians who were
arrested for organizing the non-binding referendum. Several elite sport
clubs, including FC Barcelona, joined in social media to “reject the crushing
of rights and liberties and the self-government of Catalonia [and to] support
any initiative that helps us vote at the [October 2017] Referendum” (in
Castillo Bosch, 2017).
Sport officials argue that few sectors would gain so much, and few are so
ready to leave the state as sport. While there is substantial insecurity about
the economic future of Catalonia after potential independence, actors in
sport speak with remarkable self-confidence. For example, when centralists
present doomsday scenarios where FC Barcelona and RCD Espanyol play
against sub-standard teams in a “Catalan league” of independent Catalonia,
the answer is quick and confident. “Any major European league would be
happy to have us,” former FC Barcelona president Joan Laporta told me in
an interview, with an air of superiority. “The French, the English, the
German, we have plenty to choose from with the moneys we would bring to
their league.” This confidence, however, fails to consider that the Spanish
national team offers attractive prospects to Catalan players. Even if Catalans


dominated the Spanish national team’s roster and playing style at the time, a
Catalan national team would have had less chance of winning a World Cup
(2010) and two Euro Cups (2008, 2012).
Another sign of Catalan self-confidence in sport is the way institutions
prepare the scene for a smooth transition in case independence is somehow
achieved. The Olympic Committee of Catalonia COC (Comité Olímpic de
Catalunya) was originally established in 1989 to push Catalan interests for
the Olympic Games. After decades of passivity, the organization was revived
in 2016 to work toward the international recognition of Catalan athletes as
early as Tokyo 2020. With the support of the Catalan Government’s General
Secretary of Sport (Secreteria General de l’Esport), COC launched the
campaign Sport for Yes (l’Esport pel Sí). The COC was supported by 56
Catalan sport federations, coordinated by the Union of Catalan Sport
Federations (Unió de Federacions Esportives de Catalunya), which means 80
percent of all federations in the region favored independence.
A major contention in regional vs. state sport relations is that regions
cannot have official teams in sports that Spain has one. That is how
Catalonia, for example, has 21 national teams in peripheral sports, but
cannot compete as a “nation” in major ones. According to the Plataforma
Proseleccions Esportives Catalanes, established in 1988 to work for the
officialdom of Catalan national teams, “the fastest way to achieve a situation
in which Catalonia may officially compete in all sports is independence”
(Castillo Bosch, 2017). With Catalan governmental subsidies, the Plataforma
published The Economic Impact of Catalonia’s Independence on Catalan
Sport Federations (Plataforma Proseleccions, 2017), a hundred-page-long,
detailed study with the objective of identifying and quantifying the economic
impact of potential independence on sport. It assessed the economic situation
of Catalonia’s major federations and Olympic programs, and estimated the
costs and benefits of secession. According to the study, sport’s gross value
added (GVA) would grow by 7.4% in the case of independence, and the
sport sector’s weight in the Catalan economy would increase from 1.34% to
1.44%. Sport would bring in 2570 million euros, 176.2 million more than it
does as part of Spain. The study argued that the only income football would
lose is that coming from the Royal Spanish Football Federation (RFEF),
which would be amply compensated by income generated in Catalonia
through competitions, television rights, endorsements, betting and lotteries,
sales, and Catalan government subsidies. It must be added that these are the


findings of a pro-independence organization; in the absence of contrary
studies, one may only wonder if these figures are not overly optimistic.
Playing for Spain
While the Spanish national football team has served to promote Spanish
identity, virility, and values since its inception, as the Spanish Fury at the
1920 Antwerp Olympics, the regional diversity of the roster was noteworthy:
the team consisted of thirteen Basque, four Catalan, and four Galician
players. Regional players continued to be instrumental in the development of
Spanish football throughout its history, even though some were openly anti-
Spain nationalists who would have preferred to play in official regional
national teams, had there been any.
A unique problem to secessionist contexts is that sub-national players
often play for national teams with which they do not identify. This may
create feelings of resentment for regional players, and suspicion for
centralist fans. Regional players may experience a double bind in a sense
that whether or not they choose to play for Spain, they will be punished. On
the one hand, if they choose not to play for Spain, they lose out on their
professional career, and might lose their license. If they choose to play for
Spain on the other hand, they may feel uncomfortable with Spanish identity
imposed on them by, for example, celebratory sport chants like Yo soy
español, español, español. “It’s been too long that they’ve been pressuring
us with a sentiment that is not ours,” stated ultra-trail Catalan world
champion Nuria Picas, expressing the discomfort of athletes who feel more
Catalan than Spanish (Marca, 2017). Moreover, even if a regional player is
happy to play for Spain, fear of backlash from their regional fan base might
send them into further confusion. The discomfort of having to maneuver
between loyalties was visible, for example, when the Basque Markel Susaeta
was invited to the national team in 2012, and said he was very happy to
represent “a thing,” Spain, that they “have to respect.” The player provoked
the anger of both regional and centralist soccer fans: from the former for
being happy to play for Spain, and from the latter for not being able to utter
“Spain.”
A few regional players have openly rejected to play for the Spanish
national team on ideological grounds, while more are presumed to have
discreetly turned down the offer. In the 1980s, at the height of the ETA’s


post-Franco violence, the Basque central defender Kortabarria and the goal
keeper Iribar turned down the offer. “For me, there was a moment of
contradiction,” Iribar said in an interview about his quitting the national
team after 49 games; “I could no longer ask for the amnesty of Basque ETA
prisoners, and then be ambassador of Spain with the national team” (Gómez,
2007, p. 66). Nacho Fernandez from Galicia rejected the offer in 1995,
saying he was “neither interested, nor thrilled” to play for Spain. In
Catalonia, the FC Barcelona defender Oleguer Presas politely informed the
national team manager Luis Aragonés about “how he saw the world,” and
cited his lack of “sufficient commitment or sentiment” to play for Spain
(Marca, 2012).
Others choose to play for Spain in spite of their ideological convictions,
and simply look at it as part of a career best done. Former Catalan basketball
player Jordi Villacampa played for Spain 158 times. “I don’t regret it,” he
said in an interview. “Now, am I Catalan? Yes. Would I like to vote? Also.
And I would vote yes” (Marca, 2017). FC Barcelona defender Gerard Piqué
seems to have an approach of purposeful obfuscation about his allegiances.
While he openly sympathizes with Catalanist ideology at pro-independence
rallies and in statements supporting the yellow ribbon campaign, he is also
thrilled to play for Spain, as if mocking the either/or allegiances that
Spanish–Catalan identities have become. In a 2017 interview, Piqué insisted
that his position was “not incongruent,” and he believed that an
independentist, which he added “was not his case,” could play for Spain as
there are no regional teams, and that “an independentist has nothing against
Spain” and might even find it “a great country” of “great people” (AS,
2017). Piqué had been whistled at several times by centralist fans who did
not believe in the possibility of such double dipping, to the point that the
player was contemplating leaving the national team (Vaczi et al., 2019).
Throughout the history of Spanish soccer, centralist fans had varying
degrees of anxiety over whether a regional player “gives it their all” when
playing for Spain. Such anxieties emerge in the case of “suspect” players
like Piqué, or when the national team underperforms. The goal-keeping
errors of the Basque Luis Arconada in the EUFA Euro 1984 final against
France, which cost the much-awaited title, or the disappointing, Basque-
dominated 1982 World Cup performance of the national team posed similar
questions. Arconada’s wearing white socks, or the Catalan players Xavi and
Puyol folding them over the Spanish colors might be reasons enough to


suspect sabotage (20 Minutos, 2007). In turn, when the Catalan player- and
playing-style-dominated national team won the EUFA 2008 and 2012 Euro
finals and the 2010 World Cup, the titles were celebrated as signs of
“normalcy,” and proof that Spain has finally overcome its regional divisions.
Whistling Spain
In May 2012, 55,000 Basque and Catalan fans packed into Madrid’s El
Calderón stadium for the Spanish King’s Cup final between FC Barcelona
and the Basque Athletic Club de Bilbao. King Juan Carlos himself was not
going to show up for the event that bore his name, as he had been injured at
a safari hunt in Botswana a few weeks before. His son Felipe represented the
royal family. The Spanish national anthem was reduced to 27 seconds so that
the embarrassment of its being accompanied by furious whistling by regional
fans was shortened. After the game started, Basque and Catalan fans sang
the well-known children’s song to mock the king’s hunt and fall:
An elephant was balancing on a spider’s web
And as he saw he didn’t fall,
He called another elephant.
Two elephants were balancing on a spider’s web,
And as they saw they didn’t fall,
They called another elephant.
Three elephants …
It went on and on, all the way to 15 elephants, which became a haunting
specter as they evoked the image of Juan Carlos posing with dead wild game
on photographs. The crowd’s argument was unmistakable: the sovereignty of
the Spanish state was, for them, as stable as an elephant balancing on a
spider’s web (Vaczi, 2018).
The first notable instance of whistling at a football game goes back to
1925 to the regime of Primo de Rivera, who had just overthrown the
constitutional government in 1923 with a military coup. The dictatorship
suspended the 1876 Constitution, dissolved the Spanish parliament, and
banned political parties and regional governments. The friendly match
between FC Barcelona and CE Júpiter took place in June 1925 in Catalonia.
At half time, when the Royal Marines played the Spanish Marcha Real, fans


whistled the anthem so furiously that the Marines, confused as to why the
“Spaniards” whistled “their own anthem,” switched to God Save the Queen.
To their further bafflement, the British anthem met with enthusiastic
applause. The event had major political repercussions. The stadium was shut
down for three months, and the president of FC Barcelona was exiled from
Spain. According to anecdote, the Les Corts stadium would be re-opened
only after 12 religious practitioners had blessed it in order to exorcise the
“malevolent separatist spirits” that had contaminated it (Burns, 2011, p.
124).
The recent tradition of jeering the king started in 2009, when Athletic
Club and FC Barcelona qualified for the King’s Cup final. As King Juan
Carlos emerged in the VIP booth of Valencia’s Mestalla stadium, the Spanish
national anthem would be played, but it was not heard: 55,000 Basques and
Catalans were standing, holding Basque and Catalan national flags high,
whistling in denunciation of the anthem and the royal family. The state-
owned Radio Televisión Española reduced the sound of the whistling and
amplified the anthem to audible levels, which stirred a political controversy
over censoring an act of free expression. The Foundation for the Defense of
the Spanish Nation (Denaes) sued the whistling. In spite of the National
Court decision that declared that whistling fell within the category of free
expression, pro-monarchy voices continued to call for the criminalization of
whistling each time the Basque and Catalan teams qualified for the Cup
final. When that happened in 2012, with the elephant episode above, the
President of Madrid Province Esperanza Aguirre called for the cancellation
of the game if fans whistled. Eighty-seven years later, commentators claimed
before final that Esperanza Aguirre “evoked the ghost of the dictator Primo
de Rivera,” who shut down Barcelona’s Les Corts stadium in 1925.
By 2015, when again the same teams qualified, the King’s Cup final was
a veritable controversy. “Where shall we put these 70,000 pigs, because pigs
they are, these Basque and Catalan fans who attend the King’s Cup final to
insult and profane the symbols of Spain?” a TV show host asked (La
Ratonera, 2015), indicative of the passions the game generated. “I wouldn’t
even call them Basques and Catalans,” a caller added. “They are separatists,
separratas [separatist rats], there is no other way to label them.” Ninety-five
thousand Basques and Catalans packed into Barcelona’s Camp Nou stadium
and produced a decibel that the press called “monumental,” “stratospheric,”
and “thunderous.” Spain’s ruling conservative People’s Party qualified the


incident as a “horror” that “offends us,” declared that the whistling
demonstrated a “disease part of the society suffers,” and reiterated the
proposition that insulting Spain’s symbols should be punishable. A Spanish
King’s Cup final between a Basque club and a Catalan club collapses Spain’s
regional troubles into one event, and such finals have became a tradition of
sorts; in 2009, 2012, and 2015, the whistling in protest of the sovereign and
the Spanish national anthem catalyzed nation-wide debates over the sanctity
of state symbols versus free expression, debates that found their analogs in
the American context through, for example, Colin Kaepernick’s kneeling
protests.
Conclusion
Over the years, by the end of 2019, Spain’s regional troubles went from the
“territorial question” through the “Catalan challenge” to the current “Catalan
crisis.” As the Spanish Constitution does not allow for regional referenda on
independence, Catalan NGOs have resorted to the organization of non-
binding ones. The 2017 October vote resulted in police crackdown and the
imprisonment of Catalan pro-independence politicians. Two years later in
October 2019, hundreds of thousands poured onto the streets protesting the
Spanish Supreme Court’s decision to imprison these politicians for 9 to 13
years for organizing an unconstitutional referendum on independence.
Depending on one’s position on the pro-Spain centralist and Catalan pro-
independence spectrum, the Supreme Court sentencing was variously
qualified “weak” and “disappointing,” “lengthy,” “draconian,” and the
“shame of Spain.” What these responses show is the abysmal distances that
have come to exist in Catalonia and Spain.
The Catalan sport world hurried to make formal statements that expressed
solidarity with imprisoned politicians. FC Barcelona stated that “prison was
not the solution,” only dialogue. Former Barcelona coach Pep Guardiola
made a video statement, in which he warned that Spain was experiencing a
“drift toward authoritarianism,” and urged the state to “sit down and talk.”
Former Barcelona player Xavi posted “Vergonya, verguenza, shame,” and
current defender Piqué expressed his pride in his club’s solidarity with
imprisoned pro-independence politicians. Girona FC, which had always
openly promoted the right to vote on independence, rejected the sentencing,
and called for the liberation of “unjustly imprisoned politicians.” Even RCD


Espanyol, the first division football club in Catalonia with historical ties to
pro-Spain identities, lamented the pain the sentences caused to individuals,
and urged the finding of “political and democratic solutions.” The world of
human towers, in turn, has led mobilizations in the street: they have built
human towers at political rallies, and outside the prison where their leaders
are held. They have displayed “Liberty for Political Prisoners” banners and
pro-independence estelada flags on top of their spectacular constructions,
and in the town squares where they perform.
The 2019 October Supreme Court sentencing reached a point where
return would be difficult, while Spaniards have voted four times in four
years at general elections due to governmental impasses the territorial
question has created. With a new socialist government that has shown
willingness to “sit and talk,” as banners at rallies have demanded, it remains
to be seen where the Catalan question is headed.
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Chapter 7
Football in Corsica
From the pride of being French to the desire not
to be?
Didier Rey
Introduction
On Sunday, 15 July 2018, the French national football team became world
champions. In Corsica, celebrations of joy also took place. However,
incidents of a distinctly anti-French character were noted in different parts
of the island: insults, burning of tricolour flags, and clashes.
On Thursday, 26 July 2018, at the extraordinary session of the Assembly
of the Corsican Community1 where autonomists and separatists are largely
in the majority, the agenda saw the tabling of a motion with a request for
priority review calling for Corsica’s affiliation to FIFA.2
These examples, which are not exhaustive, would support the idea of the
use of football by militants of “stateless nations”. They would show, if that
were necessary, the importance of the instrumentality of sport by the
Corsican nationalist movement, and furthermore signal the failure of the
“nationalisation of the island masses” by the French Republic.
Although legitimate in appearance, the statement of facts thus
established is nonetheless insufficient and biased. Indeed, what the study on
Corsican football over more than half a century reveals is, on the contrary, a
profound nationalisation-Frenchification of the Corsicans, and their ardent


desire to be “fully French”. However, this permanent quest for Frenchness
appears inseparable from an equally strong ethnic assertion, that of the
“Corsican race”, constructing a particular model of integration where the
fantasy of origins and the right of blood retain a certain power. It is this
model that football was going to put to the test during the integration of the
island clubs into the national championships, and the confrontation with the
Other; it was this model that football was going to undermine little by little.
It was this model that was gradually to weaken, without being extinguished,
to give way finally to a reconstituted Corsican nationalism, especially in the
stadium stands, although not without ambiguities vis-à-vis its relationship
with France. It is the construction and the foundations of these forms of
nationalism and the modes of transition from one to the other through
football that this chapter aims to analyse.
To do so, we will first of all focus on the cultural and ideological
contradictions exposed by the difficult integration of Corsican clubs into
national competitions. We will continue our analysis by looking at the
revival of Corsican nationalism, and will conclude with the current
relationships between autonomists, nationalists, and football.
Can you be Corsican and French?
In the first months of 1959, French amateur competitions underwent a
profound transformation with the establishment of the French Amateur
Championship (CFA3). One of the main innovations of this championship
was the participation of clubs from French Algeria.4 On the other hand,
Article 4, which defined the composition of tournaments, excluded Corsica
de facto from participation in the CFA, since it mentioned only sixteen
regional champions of the Honorary Division, and not seventeen. Thus,
Algeria, a colonial territory (it was then a regional department5), was
integrated into a national competition, while a metropolitan territory,
Corsica, was not. Emotions were high on the island, and not only in the
world of football. The national football authorities rectified this oversight
the following month, but refused to accept more than one Corsican club in
the CFA, unlike other French regions. And it took half a dozen years (1959–
1965), despite the ceaseless demands of Corsicans, including their
politicians, before they accepted the fact. This refusal was due to the


alleged low level of Corsican football, which resulted in their “necessary”
marginalisation in order not to weaken the competition. Worse was to come
in 1965: some French amateur clubs which were gathered in Montélimar for
a roundtable discussion demanded the total exclusion of Corsicans from
national competitions, believing that the matches taking place on the island
were given to violence, but the French authorities did not satisfy their
demands. Therefore, expecting nothing on the amateur front, the two main
clubs on the island, SC Bastia and AC Ajaccio6 integrated into the
professional championships of France where, given their relative good
economic health, they were accepted at a time when these competitions
happened to be looking for solvent clubs. In the space of two years (1967–
1968), they joined the First Division, the elite of French football.
But sport was not everything, as the omission of 1959 confirms. It was
indeed an omission and not a “conspiracy”. A few years earlier, in 1954,
Michel Carrère already said in a chapter devoted to football that “on the
regional level, France is divided into 16 leagues”,7 leaving Corsica aside,
without ever mentioning it anywhere. However, what this 1959 decision
brought home was much more than a sporting absence: it raised the
question of the place of this island regional department within the nation as
a whole.
Indeed, Corsica suffered for a long time from a lack of status, and not to
say of representation. In effect, where should it be situated? The question
may seem irrelevant, but it remains relevant. Geography maps representing
“the hexagon” until the 1990s were not very helpful: an island confined in a
rectangle near the Var coast, off Marseille, or even in the Bay of Biscay.
This was no different from the mental representation of France, which
continued to exclude Corsica de facto from the hexagon, drawn without it.
As an example, let us remember that in Paris, at the International Exhibition
of Art and Technology in 1937, the Corsica pavilion did not appear with
those of the French provinces, but was located on the Île des Cygnes, a few
metres from the Centre of the French Overseas Territories, in other words,
the pavilions of the various colonies; a kind of in-between, and not just in
the geographical sense. Admittedly, there could be a desire to distinguish
the island character of Corsica, as well as its vital links with the empire;
nevertheless Corsica exists, not with France, but through the empire. In
1957 – only two years before the omission by the CFA – the Regional
Action Programme itself, although unambiguously situating Corsica among


the metropolitan regions, nevertheless contained a significant passage, both
from the point of view of Italy’s past claims and that of the particular place
of the island in the nation as a whole:
Despite these favourable factors, the declining trend is still
predominant for the moment in Corsica. To abandon it to depopulation
and wasteland would be particularly serious at a time when Italy is
investing tens of billions in the development of Sardinia. … In the face
of these gigantic developments, the immediate future of Corsica will
testify for or against our national capacity for “internal colonisation”.8
Although French, Corsica is not quite part of France nor really of the
empire, thus undergoing a kind of in-between-identity situation. It was
surprising that the announcement made by France football about the
acceptance of the Corsican club in the CFA figured in an article
symptomatically entitled Algeria and the CFA, where it read:
During the same session, the Corsican Champion was integrated into
the South-East group, and the Algerians were not the last to appreciate
this gesture towards their friends of the Island of Beauty, with which
they have so many family ties and friendships9
In that respect, all other things being equal, this question of sporting
integration is reminiscent of what Albert Memmi wrote about other
territories: “It is the colonised who first wish to assimilate, and it is the
coloniser who refuses this”.10
On the Corsican side, the political support given to the fight for
integration was all the more firm in that it coincided with the efforts then
made by the political and economic world to align Corsica with the
principles of common law, a step deemed essential on the path of economic
development, but also perceived as the completion of Frenchness. In those
times of struggle to save the last economic tools still viable, and to put an
end to the “handicaps of insularity”, the integration of the Corsican teams
into the CFA was in the end only the sporting part of the fight, that of the
equality with the rest of the country, especially as it was often led, directly
or indirectly, by the same people, such as for example, Jean Zuccarelli,


president of the Corsican Football League and also a Corsican MP (député
de la Corse).
However, we would not fully understand the stakes of this much desired
integration, if we did not put it in the broader context of the consequences,
both ideological and political, of the Second World War in Corsica. Indeed,
as in 1918, the conflict entrenched and increased the sense of identification
with the French homeland in a way that could be considered definitive.
Especially, the way the island was liberated strengthened the assimilationist
argument: that the island was liberated as a result of a popular uprising
aided by French troops from Algeria (September–October 1943). The
keystone of this new argument, which superimposed itself on the previous
one, complemented and widened it, is made up partly by the reassessment
of an episode of the French Revolution:
On 30 November 1789, Corsica gave itself up spontaneously to France.
It thus achieved the dream of freedom and security pursued
unsuccessfully during centuries of struggle … For the Corsicans,
Pascal Paoli’s democratic constitution saw its complete fulfilment
during the Great French Revolution.11
The period of independence (1755–1769) was thus transcended by national
history; moreover, the conquest of 1769 was eliminated from history, or at
least associated with the French revolutionary episode for which it set the
stage, all in a teleological vision which “naturally” set up Corsica for its
French future. On the other hand, the insurrection of 1943 gave credence to
the image of a France indebted to Corsica for the recovery of liberty. Thus,
much more clearly than before 1939, focus was on the voluntary aspect of
integration into the “Great Nation”, rather than on an alleged geographical
and historical determinism, as had often been the case until then, which
would have led to the “attachment” to the nation as a whole. Not to mention
the idea that France was also indebted to Corsica for the blood of its sons,
who had been present in theatres of operation during various conflicts for at
least a century and a half.12 Therefore, it is clear that the assimilation of
football, too, was pursued as an ultimate goal, and perceived even more as a
right after so many sacrifices made for the Motherland. The arguments put
forward by the island press during the “Round Table” of Montélimar bear
witness to this:


I expect, because otherwise hope would be totally lost … that the
Corsicans retain their place in the French amateur championship.
Otherwise, it would occasion the most unusual of trials … a football
club summoning the FFF. Talented lawyers are not in short supply,
both in Corsica and on the continent, no more than they were in 1914–
1918 … 1939–1945 … the Corsicans who undertook to defend French
soil, and soaked it with their blood.13
Without its ideological background, the tenacity of the island rulers would
be difficult to explain. Hence the lack of understanding of the difficulties
raised by the FFF, because for the Corsicans, it was their status as “fully
French” they were denied, questioning a century of integration into the
nation as a whole.
But, at the same time, we cannot ignore the numerous references to the
values of the “Corsican race”, which are often mentioned not only by the
football community but also by politicians of all stripes, indicating in this
way the strength and the prominence of these ethnic and cultural
representations. The constant and multiple confrontations between the clubs
and the national authorities amplified the culture shock that the “battles” for
integration exposed. On the island side, it brought out a victimism designed
to ward off the danger of calling into question a Corsican and French
belonging, considered until then as “natural”. On the other side of the
Mediterranean, island football and footballers were quickly equated with
permanent and incorrigible troublemakers, “proof” of a certain
unacceptable foreignness.
The emergence of a Corsican neo-nationalism
The gradual revival of a Corsican neo-nationalism from the mid-1960s,
increased even more the conflict in the relationship between the different
protagonists of island football and their counterparts on the continent. This
reappearance of a sentiment that was thought to have been extinguished
derived from the impact of external events, where the effects of
decolonisation played a not insignificant role, even if it was not the only
issue involved.
In 1945, Corsica underwent economic, socio-cultural as well as political
escheat. This general slump was averted in the middle of the 1950s by the


intervention of the state, then engaged in vast land-use planning operations
against the backdrop of European construction and decolonisation. With the
adoption of the Regional Action Plan14 by the Council of Ministers on 30
June 1955, the island would undergo profound changes, both political and
socio-economic. Originally welcomed, the agricultural policy was quickly
diverted from its initial goals to the benefit of returnees from North Africa,
of whom nearly 15,000 settled in Corsica between 1962 and 1966, amongst
a local population of around 190,000. This situation was all the more badly
received as Corsica was the only regional department to join the putschists
of Algiers of 13 May 1958;15 in addition to dispossession, there was a
feeling of betrayal. The operation was felt as a vast attempt at
dispossession, the sentiment further reinforced by the bad choices in tourist
policy, resulting in the monopolising of coastal areas by some large
international groups. In 1972, the publication by the autonomists of the
Hudson Report, commissioned by state services but kept confidential,
confirmed that the islanders were enduring development more than they
were participating in it. Most Corsicans felt they were victims of vast land
dispossession, which subordinated them to an inferior socio-economic
class, and suffered a distressing cultural depersonalisation. It is the
convergence of these elements, which are not perceived with so much
intensity on other shores of the Mediterranean Sea, which triggered and fed
the crisis.
We must also be careful not to forget the weight of the colonial culture
that resulted in the interpretation of “development” as aggression and an
attempt at colonisation, and no longer as a tool for economic development.
In Corsica, references to North Africa – in other words, to classical
colonialism – contaminated the political process itself. The regionalists,
then the autonomists, thereupon developed a discourse where the Corsican
situation was likened to that of colonial Algeria, the presence of the “Pieds-
Noirs” and the modes of their installation apparently confirming the
accuracy of this. The overseas experience “has so deeply nourished the
Corsican intelligentsia that it has fossilised its colonial culture as a criterion
of evaluation”.16 The results were, among other things, the first violent
actions against the buildings of “settlers”, which were sometimes
dynamited, as well as often violent land occupations. Moreover, the turn
taken in the “enhancement” and the prevarications of the state concerning
regionalisation began to worry even the traditional political class which,


feeling a rising discontent that was growing violent, redoubled statements
and warnings to the state and its representatives using the only comparative
structural analysis available to it: colonisation.
The gradual resurgence of Corsican national sentiment, still confused,
ambiguous but real, was one of the consequences of this deleterious
situation. It was further facilitated by the preservation of a feeling of ethnic
difference, even though this had until then served an integrationist purpose.
This new nationalism was notably seen with Corsican students in France.17
The re-appropriation of local history, its re-evaluation and its reintegration
into an Italian and Mediterranean setting, invalidated the teleological
discourse of the island’s French destiny. The rediscovery of entire sections
of island history, obscured or even falsified, and the reinterpretation of
certain assimilationist myths in an opposite direction, would reinsert the
recent nationalist narrative into a historical continuum, giving rise to an
invented tradition, a true spearhead in the objection, and finally the
destruction, of the teleological discourse, whose shock wave would reach
even football.
As early as in 1973, the political movements, hitherto regionalist,
asserted themselves as clearly autonomist, which no party had dared to do
since 1939. Among them the Action pour la Renaissance de la Corse
(Action for the Renaissance of Corsica, ARC18) which quickly became the
spearhead of the island’s demands. The state, for its part, committed errors
of judgement which worsened the situation. While the government was
cracking down on the legal movement ARC, armed clandestine groups were
emerging. The turning point came on 21 August 1975 in Aleria, when
autonomist activists moved into the wine cellar of a “pied-noir” to
denounce financial fraud. The government reacted brutally, and the
confrontation between the autonomists and the police forces caused two
deaths among the latter. A few days later, on 27 August, blood flowed again
in Bastia during a riotous night. On 5 May 1976, amid the crashes of
bombs, the Fronti di liberazioni naziunali di a Corsica (National Liberation
Front of Corsica, FLNC) was born, as fruit of the fusing of various
clandestine movements, which set as its objective the independence of
Corsica. From then on, for forty years (1976–2014), Corsica was to live in
the shadow of several thousand attacks and dozens of deaths, including the
assassination of a prefect in February 1998. In December 2015, after
difficult and long periods of failure and the abandonment of armed struggle,


the nationalist parties won the elections to the Territorial Assembly for the
first time in their history, thereby opening the doors to power.
Football and neo-nationalism: from political second best
to ideological commitment
However, the instrumentality of football by the autonomist and nationalist
movements would not follow political demands, nor would it support them.
It was at the very beginning of the 1970s that the question of the
relationship between the autonomist movement and football really arose.
The latter, indeed, was then by far the most popular sport on the island, and
therefore it offered the possibility of political “visibility” like no other.
Some activists were beginning to see the benefit of being present in this
terrain:
“Beware, Gauls, patience has its limits!”, “Corsica, the last French
colony” … Such were the slogans on banners which filled the stands of
the Furiani stadium on the night of Saint-Etienne’s arrival.19
In France, young Corsican students made the same observation and quickly
grasped the importance of the issue, but they could still only express it
through temporary – sometimes violent – demonstrations at away games
played by the island teams. Thus, Léo Battesti, then a young student, and
future leader of the FLNC, remembered the impact of football on his
political awareness:
Another fact proved undoubtedly even more decisive for my
commitment: Bastia’s first cup final against Marseille in the Coupe de
France. It took place on 4 June 1972 … I had made a T-shirt for the
occasion. I wrote, with adhesive letters, an original message: “Allez la
Corse”. And there, I was inoculated for life after no less than three
skirmishes, all caused by the slogan … I exposed, with a certain
vivacity, my own point of view, realising that prejudices, which I
rejected for blacks or Arabs, also concerned us … The narrow defeat
was a huge shock. My awareness of the Corsican problem became all
the more intense. From the beginning of the 1973 academic year, I
decided to campaign within the Nice section of ARC.20


The leaders, however, remained reluctant because the intellectual training of
most of them had hardly prepared them to conceive of sport as an
instrument of struggle. In order to make it happen, it took all the obstinacy
of the journalist Victor Sinet,21 who fully understood the importance of the
phenomenon of football in the role as a marker of national identity, a
fortiori for a people that were considered among the autonomists a national
minority. Although activism in the stadiums continued, it never took a
different form than that seen until then. As a result, the interest of the ARC
in football materialised essentially through its press organ, Arritti, which
offered the possibility of spreading the autonomist message beyond strictly
political spheres, and thus bringing other Corsicans to join the fight through
football.
Therefore, the sports section of the newspaper became a permanent
feature, dealing on the stigmatisation – real or supposed – that the island
clubs were subjected to by the footballing authorities, especially those
calling into question whether the Corsican teams belonged to the national
community. However, what would have been considered as an insult
yesterday was now highly affirmed and displayed: not belonging to the
French ensemble. A step was taken: one no longer asked for “redress”. On
the contrary, it was now clearly a nationalist issue, without taking the
reflection to its final end: pure and simple separation. Too sensitive to
appearances – and especially to symbols – the French government seemed
to have, once again, largely overestimated the capabilities of the ARC and
its investment in sports. Thus, in the very confused situation in August
1975, the public authorities decided to postpone the Bastia–Nice match
scheduled for 26 August, and put under high surveillance the Bastia–Troyes
match scheduled for early September. As for the representation of the
Corsican people by the autonomists through these articles, this remained
strongly marked by the vision of their pre-war predecessors, that is to say,
above all ethnic, as evidenced by the almost constant recourse to the term
“race” to evoke the islanders in sporting as well as political articles. Despite
this, the autonomists were fond of pointing out their desire for integration of
the French residents on the island, at least those who agreed to blend in with
the Corsican people to form a “community of destiny”. For others, there
was no salvation.
It must therefore be noted that football had never become politically
“major” in the context of the autonomist struggle; no one would ever think


of investing in any club, even amateur ones, or setting up an unofficial
national team. There was also no real reflection on the sporting
phenomenon. At the end of the day, football remained a minor element of
the political struggle, and it was only its “visibility” that really attracted the
attention of the leaders of the ARC, and the movements that would follow
it.
The pro-independence nationalists were now separated once and for all
from the autonomists, as of the birth of the FLNC.22 Forgetting the lessons
of a recent past of propaganda in the stadiums, and initially captivated by
the scent of the Third World discourse, the FLNC considered football as a
vulgar “opium of the people”, distilled by tribes and “the colonial state” to
“alienate the Corsican people”. Consequently, their disinterest – even their
hostility – towards football was total. The only exception was the
ephemeral temptation of a “strong act” on the part of the FLNC, proposing
to attack the security forces mobilised for the European final between
Bastia and Eindhoven (9 May 1978), at the risk of a bloodbath. Nothing
happened, some militants recoiling before the possibility of a massacre,
abandoning the hellish spiral that their Basque and Irish counterparts had
failed to avoid. A few weeks later, the members of the organisation fell into
the hands of the police, and the “sporting question”, if there had been one,
disappeared from the clandestine issue. However, a few years later, it was
slowly appearing within legal structures.
This interest became characteristic around the years 1985–1988 for three
essential reasons: first, the fact that a youth faction was the spearhead of the
demand at a time of certain difficulties for the nationalist movement as a
whole. These young people were mostly interested in football. Therefore, it
was appropriate to give them a certain position. Then, the desire grew for
the nationalist press organ, U Ribombu, to become the journal of reference
for the island diaspora. U Ribombu tried to capture possible readership also
through the medium of football, which constituted a link and a special focus
for Corsicans living outside. Lastly, it was impossible to avoid a cyclical
sporting event, the return of the Ajaccio–Bastia derby in the Second
Division from 1986 on, which fascinated the island public. However, once
again, only journalistic investment characterised this nationalist interest in
football. The latter remained, for the nationalists, a subordinate means of
political struggle, but which in itself was of little importance. Moreover, the
lack of follow-up and the rather heterogeneous nature of the articles clearly


indicated the absence of any guidelines and thorough reflection on the
phenomenon.
In 1989, the break-up in the nationalist camp led to the break-up of the
unified party into three rival structures, each with its own party, press organ
and armed wing (Table 7.1).
This led to all-out competition, where football became an important but
inconstant issue. Originally limited to the journalistic field, between 1991
and 1995, the nationalist interest in football spilled onto the sporting field
for the first time through its influence over the three big island clubs: AC
Ajaccio by the MPA, and GFC Ajaccio23 and SC Bastia by the CN. Given
its weak position, the ANC were left out. However, this investment was the
result of particular circumstances, some sporting,24 others linked to the
fierce political competition between the two main nationalist movements in
the perspective of elections to the Territorial Assembly, endowed with new
powers (1992). Only the MPA went further by creating an ephemeral,
unofficial Corsican national side (1991–1993). However, the outbreak of
the armed clash between the CN and the MPA,25 which eventually led to
the disappearance of the latter, put an end to the sporting experience by
nationalists in this area (1997). Subsequently, they returned to traditional,
inconstant, and thematically hardly innovative journalistic investment. All
in all, like the autonomists, there was no fundamental reflection on the
sporting phenomenon on the part of the nationalists, and football remained
a minor element in the political struggle, which was only pushed to the
foreground by its capacity to offer “visibility” for a time.
Table 7.1
Political Party
Press organ
Clandestine military
structure
A Cuncolta Naziunalista (CN)
U Ribombu di a Corsica
Nazione
FLNC Historical
Channel
Muvimentu Per
l’Autodeterminazione (MPA)
Paese
FLNC Habitual
Channel
Accolta Naziunale Corsa (ANC)
A Fiara
Resistenza
What remains to address is the attitude of the directors of the island
football clubs, who were from good middle-class backgrounds and not
nationalist, in the face of the grievances of autonomists and separatists.


Prudence and opportunism guided their behaviour. The autonomist symbols
were temporarily instrumentalised in a commercial sense. Thus, in 1974,
the directors of SC Bastia, without sharing at all the ideas of their turbulent
autonomist supporters, knew perfectly how to use the true hymn of the
autonomists, as evidenced by the broadcasting of the song “U Culombu”26
before the beginning of each match at the Furiani stadium. In a symbolic
attempt to counter this appropriation of the sporting space by the
autonomists – without them being paradoxically responsible for anything –
the prefectural authorities did not hesitate to take an interest in the results of
the island teams, or at least appear from time to time in the Bastia stadium.
However, this was without much success, and the operation was quickly
abandoned. After 1997, the island bourgeoisie regained control of the
sporting associations, and only certain nationalistic figures were still
present in the organigrams of the clubs, which did not have great
significance. As for use of the Corsican language, this had appeared on all
the official websites of the island clubs, but in a more symbolic than really
meaningful way.
The real novelty was not the party structures, but the supporters. The
history of the latter remains to be written, but it is indisputable that, if
Corsican football has become the marker of a new, fundamentally anti-
French national identity in these first decades of the twenty-first century, it
was due to the actions of the supporters. Marked by the historically
nationalist Vulgate; educated in the mythical history of Corsican football –
first and foremost, SC Bastia – through social networks; and structured by
the modus operandi of ultra-European groups, they had transformed the
stands of the Ajaccian and especially Bastian stadiums into a place of
protest and national affirmation. The text of several banners deployed at the
Furiani stadium by the Bastia 190527 group said enough about the
nationalist and ultra-orientation of its members: “Refugees welcome,
France go home” (in English), “Welcome to the French who only stay with
us for 90 minutes”, or “Qatar finances PSG … and terrorism”. Any
reference to French identity was deliberately erased, and the presence of
national symbols, even very discreet, would be considered as an intolerable
provocation. Thus, in November 2015, in the aftermath of the Islamist
attacks in Paris, the same ultra-Bastian group protested against the playing
of the French national anthem, La Marseillaise. After several days of
controversy, it was finally played, but the fans in question did not enter the


stadium until the anthem was over. The anti-French incidents following the
victory of France in the World Cup in July 2018 must be seen in this light.
Could things go further? In the summer of 2017, a new clandestine
nationalist group emerged, while all the others had disappeared. In the
arguments justifying its creation, its members highlighted the “raids and
detention of many young people, without trial dates, [which] fuelled the
feeling of extreme injustice suffered by the Corsican people” after the
serious incidents at the Reims–Bastia match on 13 February 2016, between
Corsican supporters and the police force. This group has not made any
declarations since then.
In another area, the Corsica Football Association was created, which set
as its goal the “development and promotion of football in Corsica by legal
means, especially through the organisation of conferences, debates, friendly
games of football, and more generally by any operation that ensures the
promotion and sustainability of Corsican football”. It seemed to advocate a
willingness to pull the unofficial national side out of its passive role and to
register it in official competitions. However, no serious attempt was made;
the request for membership in FIFA submitted in July 2018 without any
prior reflection or work looked more like media publicity than real political
will.
Conclusion
The case study that constitutes island football reminds us to be cautious,
and encourages us to avoid hasty generalisations under the distorting prism
of a stereotypic vision; see essentialist readings. Two conclusions may be
drawn in the light of the above.
The first conclusion concerns methods of nationalist affirmation through
football. In the case of Corsica, it is obvious that the very recent character
of nationalism clearly goes against the serious instrumentalisation of
football. Hence, the lack of interest of the nationalist movement in football
as an instrument of affirmation of identity should be noted. Indeed, beyond
a certain “agit-prop”, neither the autonomists nor the separatists are capable
of a deep reflection on a phenomenon as complex as sport. The influence –
direct or indirect – on the three main clubs by the separatists is simply an
interlude. That is, except in the stands of stadiums: needless to say, no
French flag has been seen for at least forty years.


1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
The second element, complementary to the first, concerns the genesis of
the construction of national identities which must be put into permanent
perspective, including certain contradictions which have too often been
neglected. Thus, in the insular case, a deep French nationalism coexisted for
a long time with a no less profound ethnic conscience, the affirmation of a
lineage inscribed in the rhetoric of “blood right”. This frequently evoked
the values of “the Corsican race” as distinct from the “French race”, but
was not adversarial. Did not a prime minister, travelling to the island in
1996, declare that the Corsicans were French by bloodshed, without this
triggering the slightest protest in any political family whatsoever? It is this
“fusion of identity”, mixing territorial rights, blood right, and blood tribute,
which is at risk of disintegration due to the confrontation with the Other
since 1959. The construction of the French identity of Corsica thus reveals
that, beyond the discourses, concepts of citizenship and nationality are far
from being as unequivocal as they appear; without forgetting that the
profound impact of “the colonial adventure” on the construction of identity
can prove to be a capital element too often neglected. The comparison
through football with other peripheral territories of the French – and
European – space deserves to be questioned vis-à-vis these concepts and the
imperial heritage.
Notes
6ème Session extraordinaire de 2018, n°2018/E6/059.
Fédération internationale de football association.
Championnat de France amateur.
France football, No. 683 of 14 April 1959, Report of the Plenary Meeting of 7 March 1959.
Three departments in 1954; twelve in 1959.
Sporting Club Bastia and Athletic Club Ajaccio.
Michel Carrère, 1954, p. 62.
Journal officiel de la République française (Official Journal of the French Republic), No. 1094,
1957, p. 18.
France football, No. 707 of 29 September 1959.
Albert Memmi, 2002 [1961], p. 141.
Maurice Choury, 1988 [1956], pp. 15–16. Pascal Paoli (1729–1807), Pasquale Paoli in the
Corsican language, is the national hero of the Corsican independent government (1755–1769).
Didier Rey, 2014.
Corse-Matin of 15 March 1965.
Plan d’action régionale.
That day, the army seized power to preserve French Algeria, overthrowing the Fourth Republic,
and facilitating the return of General de Gaulle to power. Corsica was the only French regional


16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
department where, thanks to local complicity, paratroopers from Algiers set up a Committee of
Public Safety.
Nicolas Giudici, 1997, p. 28.
There are no universities in Corsica since the French conquest. The new one would open its
doors to students in September 1981, in the city where the first existed, namely Corte.
It became, after 1973, Azzione per a Rinascita di a Corsica (same meaning but in the Corsican
language).
Kyrn, April/May 1970.
Léo Battesti, 2017, pp. 32–33.
An cultural activist, he was a journalist for L’Équipe and France football.
Fronte di Liberazione Nazuinale di a Corsica (in French: Front de Libération nationale de la
Corse), National Liberation Front of Corsica.
Gazélec Football Club d’Ajaccio.
AC Ajaccio, which has long since disappeared from professional football, is languishing in the
insular amateur league; SC Bastia, then in Ligue 2, is a club on the slide, abandoned by the
traditional bourgeoisie since the Furiani disaster (5 May 1992, eighteen dead and more than
2,300 injured due to the collapse of a temporary stand); GFC Ajaccio, also in Ligue 2, is in
financial difficulties.
Which caused the death of fifteen people between February 1995 and July 1996; including
eleven assassinations between 13 July and 30 August 1995.
The marine conch. It was in this way that the call was made again for mobilisation and war from
one valley to another.
SC Bastia was founded in 1905.
References
Archives of the Fédération Française de football. Kyrn Magazine, 1969–1981.
Léo Battesti, La vie par-dessus tout, Bastia, Corsica Flash Éditions, 2017.
Michel Carrère, Encyclopédie des sports modernes. Le football, Monaco/Geneva/Zurich, Union
européenne d’éditions/Kister et Schmid, 1954.
Maurice Choury, Tous bandits d’honneur! Résistance et libération de la Corse juin 1940–octobre
1943, Ajaccio, La Marge, 1988 [1956].
Nicolas Giudici, Le crépuscule des Corses, Paris, Grasset, 1997.
Albert Memmi, Portrait du colonisé. Portrait du colonisateur, Paris, Folio Actuel, 2002 [1961].
Didier Rey, La Corse, ses morts et la Guerre de 1914–1918, Vingtième siècle, no. 121, 2014.


Chapter 8
Living through defeat
Hungarian–Romanian relations through Szekler
hockey
Mariann Vaczi
Introduction
“There is an anecdote,” I was told early on during my stay in Szeklerland
(Székelyföld), deep in the belly of Romania’s Carpathian mountain range,
about how a Romanian internet portal once asked its readers to vote for
the all-time best national hockey team line up. They couldn’t get further
than defense position, where three Szekler Hungarian names competed
(Dezső Varga, Előd Antal, and Sándor Gál). Then, they stopped.
Csíkszereda Sportklub, the ethnographic locus of this study, has been
instrumental in Romanian hockey and the national team, while Szekler–
Romanian relations have been thwarted by ethnic tensions and violence over
the club’s centenarian history.
Szeklers, also referred to as ethnic Hungarians or just Hungarians, are a
community who were detached from Hungary and annexed to Romania
along with Transylvania as a result of the 1920 Trianon Treaty, which
formally ended World War I between the Allies and the Kingdom of
Hungary. While the Hungarian population has shrunk drastically elsewhere
in Transylvania, Szeklers remain a majority minority, a kind of “internal


periphery” (Bottoni, 2013, p. 481). They constitute a compact enclave in
their home counties Hargita, Kovászna, and parts of Maros in the
geographical center of Romania (see Figure 8.1). Landlocked by Romania,
Szeklers have struggled to survive in a context where both Romania and
Hungary pursued their nationalizing projects from above, and the borders
were re-drawn four times between 1867 and World War II. Today,
Szeklerland is situated in the fissures between two states: Hungary, with
which it belongs linguistically and culturally, and Romania, with which it
belongs geographically and administratively.
Szeklerland has no formal autonomy, and the Romanian Constitution
allows no referendum in the question of independence. The civil society
called Szekler National Council drafted a statute of autonomy in 2004, but
the Romanian parliament rejected it without discussion. Various imaginings
of devolution have included Transylvania’s (including Szeklerland) re-
annexation back to Hungary; independent Transylvania; independent Szekler
Republic; or a Szekler Autonomous Region within Romania. Because of the
constitutional restriction, however, political activism for autonomy or
independence has mostly remained at the level of symbolic events such as
marches, referenda, and human chains.




Figure 8.1
Hungarian-speaking Szekler counties within Romania.
Szeklers constitute a majority minority in these areas.
Source: Wikimedia Commons. Author: Sie.
The main Szekler sport, ice hockey is both constitutive and reflective of
ethnic Hungarian–Romanian relations as they fluctuated over the twentieth
century. Szekler players, coaches, and managers played and worked for the
Romanian national team and the Romanian Hockey Federation for decades,
and often even dominated them, while ethnic Hungarian–Romanian relations
became aggravated in the political realm.
The place myths of Transylvania
Transylvania, particularly its mountainous regions including Szeklerland,
has become something of a “place myth” (Light, 2009). Traveling by train
into the Carpathian Mountains from Budapest one has the impression, with
Stoker’s Dracula, that one is progressively “leaving the West and entering
the East” (1997, p. 9). In the Western imagination, Transylvania is the
wildest, coldest, and most mysterious corner of Europe, the land of horror
and superstition. Deep into the Carpathians, small villages are covered with
ice. Pine trees tower over the steep mountain ranges where the train seeks its
path in the Maros river valley. No one can be seen in what one imagines are
streets under the snow, and the quiet of the cold is breathtaking. Only a few
smoking chimneys and vagabonding dogs disrupt the immobility of the
landscape, and suggest that there is life there, after all.
For many Hungarians in the state of Hungary, Transylvania is the land of
pristine, untouched beauty that is home to another place myth: the
particularly authentic “Hungarianness” of Szeklers. As a result of the “myth-
producing role” (Bottoni, 2013, p. 482) of twentieth-century cultural elites in
the state of Hungary, Transylvania has become a “meta-historical space”
(Bottoni, 2013, p. 497) where the indomitable Szeklers struggled against
Romanian rule to keep their Hungarian identity. The romantic savagery of
the landscape adds to the mystique of Szeklers, which consists of an
interiorized sense of remoteness and obduracy. “To characterize someone as
Szekler is not only to convey that the person is Hungarian,” Brubaker et al.
write; “but also to suggest that she is a particularly Hungarian Hungarian”
(in Laihonen and Tódor, 2017, p. 364). As they say in Szeklerland, “a


Szekler too is Hungarian, but more so.” The cult of Szeklers as the authentic
Hungarians goes back to the past century, and enjoys a particular resurgence
through Hungary’s current conservative Orbán government’s nation-building
projects, of which Hungarian enclaves beyond state borders constitute a
great part.
The Hungarian government has nourished this romance since Viktor
Orbán was first president in 1998. “When they got off that train here 30
years ago,” the anecdote goes from a local politician of Csíkszereda; “their
face dropped. They were shocked to find a little Hungarian world here, ten
hours from the border into Romania.” Orbán’s conservative FIDESZ party,
while not in government, pushed for a 2004 referendum in Hungary about
granting dual citizenship to Hungarian ethnic minorities beyond the state’s
borders. The idea of dual citizenship created much controversy, and its left-
wing opponents flashed the specter of “23 million Romanians invading”
Hungary for jobs (Mérce, 2017). The referendum was unsuccessful due to
low turnout, and the controversy left ethnic Hungarians with a bitter feeling
of betrayal. “Calling us ‘Romanian’ is the greatest insult,” a Szekler woman
told me; “particularly when it comes from Hungary.”
Once Orbán was back in power in 2010, a law of dual citizenship for
ethnic Hungarians beyond the borders was passed. It was by then more of a
sentimental issue rather than a practical one, for those who wanted to come
to live in Hungary had been able to do so as both countries were EU
members. But symbolic gestures have great significance in sub-national
contexts such as this, and Szeklers speak fondly about the day they put on
their Sunday best and walked into the city hall to get their Hungarian
citizenship. Today, practically all have Hungarian IDs and passports, besides
Romanian. They vote in Hungarian elections more than Romanian ones, as
those, they say, have greater direct impact on their lives culturally and
financially. At the same time, the Orbán government’s expenditures on
distant, non-tax paying communities beyond Hungary’s borders, including
sponsorship of such projects as the Szeklerland Ice Hockey Academy,
continue to provoke controversy in Hungary.
Szeklerland’s place myth is currently enhanced by two annual cultural
events: the Day of a Thousand Szekler Maidens folk festival in July and the
Pentecost Pilgrimage Mass in Csíksomlyó, celebrated by Pope Francis in
2019. Hundreds of Hungarians take the Csíksomlyó Express every year from
Hungary to Szeklerland to seek what they see as the festive reunion of


Hungarian brotherhood torn apart by historical circumstances. The 14-hour
train ride itself is part of a liminal transformation: a highly emotional and
symbolic experience as ethnic Hungarians come to greet the pilgrims at the
railway stations of cities that used to belong to Hungary.
But one must go to Szeklerland in January to understand what I wished to
understand for this paper: how Szeklers managed to keep their insularity
where other ethnic Hungarian communities of Transylvania shrunk radically
over the past century. The “Szekler soul,” they suggested repeatedly, cannot
be understood without the cold. They call the Olt river valley, where hockey
first started, “little Siberia” for the climactic phenomenon of inversion: it is
often colder in the valley than in the mountains. “Our disadvantages turned
out to be our advantages for survival,” former Csíkszereda Sportklub player
and director of the Szekler Ice Hockey Academy Attila Nagy told me: “the
cold, and what our Canadian coach referred to as our ‘tribal thinking.’ He
said, in his country, native tribes lived in reservations; I said, welcome to my
reservation!’ ” Szeklers managed to resist forced settlement and
Romanianization that worked elsewhere in Transylvania due to, they will
readily admit, the “inhospitable climate,” and the “inhospitable Szekler
temperament.”
If Csíkszereda (Miercurea Ciuc in Romanian), a major Szekler city of
about 42,000 people, is cold enough, its hockey hall is a veritable ice pit.
Unlike other ice rinks which have some kind of heating system, such as the
one in the rival city Brasov, Csíkszereda Sportklub’s Vákár Lajos arena has
none. Its socialist style working-class aesthetics of iron and concrete only
exacerbate the feeling of cold. “I checked your outfit before you entered,”
Előd Papp, a club official greeted me before my first game. “Two things are
fundamental: boots and a cap. You can’t do this without them.” Seating 3000
people, games have an overall small-scale atmosphere where one knows
almost everyone else, at least by sight. A new face on the stands, or the
absence of an old one will be noticed. Even club management lacks a formal
organogram; “I am something of a utility man, doing whatever comes up,”
Papp told me.
The rink was so cold I could hardly wait for the break at the end of each
third to go, or rather tiptoe on the ice of the street with the rest of the fans to
Grizzly’s bar to seek warmth: strong local cognac and pálinka. Sometimes
they are served in coffee cups back in the restaurant’s kitchen to avoid police
who check whether alcohol is served 50 yards within the ice rink. After


every home game victory, the team ceremoniously lines up on the ice before
the main terrace and sings the Szekler national anthem together with fans:
“A handful of Szeklers/Dust away like rock/At the rough seas/Of the
struggle of nations/The flood covers our head/A hundred times over/Don’t
let/Transylvania perish oh God!” The cold lends anthem singing a chilling
solemnity as male voices thunder across the ice.
At a certain sensory level, the cold and toughness of hockey is revealing
of the Szekler historical predicament. Some even envisioned ice as a solution
to it. When I asked what form of Szekler autonomy he would like to see, a
Szekler man told me he’d “rather have the River Olt step out of its bed,
flood, and freeze all over so that no one can come here, and we are left
alone.” That is very much how Szekler hockey started in the 1920s: by
diverting the River Olt onto a meadow, which froze by the next morning. It
is ice that captures Szeklers’ desire for self-preservation, a desire to freeze in
time and place as it were, if that is the price of shrinking no more.
Transylvania, a shrinking Magyar világ “Hungarian world”
A literary critic once wrote that someone should write an essay about all the
great events, encounters, suicides, beginnings, and endings that happened on
railway station platforms in world literature. Similarly, the 14-hour train ride
from Budapest Keleti railway station to Szeklerland is something that
Foucault would call a heterotopia, a “bundle of extraordinary relations”
(Foucault and Miskowiec, 1986, pp. 23–24), which puts one in a pensive
mode of historical reflection as the train passes through Transylvania. First
of all, one cannot just fly in. Transilvania International Airport is a four-hour
train ride away from Csíkszereda, and the Bucharest airport is just as far,
including the fact that flights between Budapest and Bucharest are rare and
rather expensive. The train leaves from Budapest twice a day, morning and
night, and is something of a lifeline between Hungarians in Szeklerland and
the “mother country.”
The first stop right after the Hungarian–Romanian border is Nagyvárad
(Oradea). With a population of approximately 200,000, Nagyvárad is the
closest big city Hungary lost in 1920: it is a mere 6 miles away from the
Hungarian–Romanian border. For Hungarians, the city will always come to
mind in subjunctive mode: the “what if” and “if only” those borders had
been drawn a few miles to the east. Ten years before its annexation to


Romania in 1910, Nagyvárad’s population was 90% Hungarian and 6%
Romanian; ten years later, in 1930, the ratio was 51% and 27%, respectively;
today, only about 25% of the city’s population is Hungarian. Nagyvárad was
an important economic, cultural, educational, and religious center of the
Kingdom of Hungary. For most “mother country” Hungarians, Nagyvárad
evokes the lives and styles of belle-époque Hungarian intellectuals enjoying
this “little Paris on the Körös river”: particularly those of the national poet
Endre Ady, whose prolific writing and love life in Nagyvárad left a
permanent mark on twentieth-century Hungarian literature.
About three hours later, the train stops in Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca).
Kolozsvár is known for its aggressive display of Romanian national flags on
every lamp post, particularly at the train station so that the visitor has no
doubt about allegiances. Kolozsvár is the most important historical center
and military fortress of Transylvania, with a current population of 320,000.
Indicative of its thriving cultural and university life dating back to the early
sixteenth century, Kolozsvár was home to the first Hungarian-language
opera performance in 1882. In 1941, Kolozsvár’s Hungarian population was
still 88%, after which it started its heavy decline to the current ratio of 10%.
Kolozsvár is rather infamous for Hungarian–Romanian relations, which
plummeted with the controversial mayorship of the Romanian nationalist
Gheorghe Funar between 1992 and 2004. Funar literally painted the city the
Romanian colors blue, red, and yellow: street furniture, pavements, and
tricolor Christmas lights were the precursor of today’s ubiquitous flag
display. Although many of these policies were revoked by his successor,
Kolozsvár lives in Hungarians’ minds as a conflicted place where street and
bar fights have occurred for speaking Hungarian.
Another three hours later the train arrives at Marosvásárhely (Târgu
Mureș). Szeklers think of this city with a heavy heart. Marosvásárhely was
considered the capital city of Szeklerland, but has come to constitute a
painful, fresh wound. “We have lost it recently!” Szeklers will tell you. In
1992, the city’s population was still 50% Hungarians; by 2002, they were in
a minority and today, out of 130,000 overall population, only 30% are
Hungarian. Even so, the city is home to the largest Hungarian community.
Marosvásárhely also stands for the worst ethnic tensions that accumulated
under the communist Ceaușescu regime (1965–1989), and burst forth with
violent energies after its 1989 collapse. The pogrom between ethnic
Hungarians and Romanians left five dead and more than 300 injured. In


February 1990, in a spirit of reclaiming minority rights, the Hungarian writer
András Sütő convoked a demonstration in Marosvásárhely to promote
reading and schooling in Hungarian. Radical Romanian nationalist segments
feared Hungarian irredentism and separatism. The Romanian far-right
nationalist organization Uniunea Vatra Românească (Romanian Hearth
Union) convoked a demonstration on March 19. The crowd attacked the
headquarters of the Democratic Alliance of Hungarians in Romania (DAHR)
party. Many were trapped in the building or beaten up in the street, including
Sütő, who lost an eye. The next day, 3000 Romanian peasants and miners
were dispatched from neighboring villages, armed with agricultural
equipment (Human Rights Watch, 1990). As a response, many Szeklers
including World War II veterans and the Roma community also mobilized. A
barricade was built, buses were set on fire, and the two parties eventually
clashed in a violent fight leaving three Hungarians and two Romanians dead.
The 1990 Black March of Marosvásárhely was symptomatic of what Sütő
called “the terrible spiritual contamination” (BBC, 2005) of the Ceaușescu
regime. Szeklers still blame ethnic relations on the contamination of politics.
“We would get along just fine,” a Szekler man told me about everyday co-
existence with Romanians; “if only politicians above wouldn’t trigger
tensions.”
According to a 2011 Romanian census, 1.3 million Hungarian speakers
live in Romania, 600,000 of which claim Szekler identity (Laihonen and
Tódor, 2017, p. 363). It is very much a shrinking universe, but there are still
small towns and villages where, as they say, “only the policeman is
Romanian.” From what Szeklers have variously told me, their resistance to
Romanianization comes down to four factors that constitute their complex of
defiance: the cold of the region, the absence of bilingualism, a resistance to
intermarriages, and a temper that is “quick to pull out a pocket knife” to
defend their own. “Romanians were afraid of us in the military,” a man
remembered, “they said because we always carried pocket knives. And that
was true, because of the ham we brought from home.” The so-called
“Szekler bravado” (székely virtus) refers to a no-nonsense traditionalism and
mountain-people ruggedness that holds, by comparison, “mother-country”
Hungarians a little over-civilized and pusillanimous. “We are a bit brutish,
hardened, but deep down also sentimental, although sentiments are not much
talked about,” a former hockey player told me. “Education in Szeklerland is


not about self-confidence or individualism but rules, and the observance of
tradition.”
In sub-national contexts, the state’s language tends to be spoken with
greater frequency due to its enforcement or cultural hegemony; Szeklers,
however, hardly speak the state language Romanian. As they have access to
media products from the Hungarian state, their first systematic exposure to
Romanian takes place at school, and remains limited. Although the
Romanian curriculum demands some competence, it is limited to
abstractions in the lack of actual interpersonal communication. “I can
actually discuss literary or philosophical texts in Romanian,” a young
woman told me. “But I couldn’t buy tomatoes at the market, or have small
talk with a Romanian person.” The Romanian language competence that is
required for high school exams might be so taxing for Szekler youth that
young ice hockey players have moved over to clubs in the Hungarian state
partly to avoid the linguistic challenges of Romanian secondary education.
As for ethnic intermarriages, they are considered an almost guaranteed
loss of Hungarian, as children in those families would likely speak
Romanian. “When the family sits down for Sunday lunch,” I was told,
“understandably, you want to speak your mother tongue. If someone around
the table is Romanian, the whole family would have to speak Romanian.”
Szeklers’ lack of Romanian sometimes became a subject of resentment for
state powers. Romanian media, a journalist told me, “would remark bitterly
after hockey games that Hungarians knew only two phrases in Romanian:
‘Gypsies! Go home!’ ”
Twentieth-century politics and questions of Szekler
autonomy
No matter which state it belonged to, Transylvania has always been an
ethnically and linguistically diverse region. Hungarians in Transylvania
constitute a case where a formerly dominant ethnic group came to be
subjected, by a reversal of political roles, by its neighbors. Overall in
Transylvania, Romanians always outnumbered Hungarians including in
1920, when the Trianon Treaty of ceding Transylvania to Romania was
signed. However, Hungarians concentrated and held political and
administrative power in the urban areas, as we saw above. Therefore,
Romanians were a majority, but were subjugated as a “rural underclass”


(McIntosh et al., 1995, p. 942), allowing for centuries of grievances to
accumulate. Twentieth-century tensions were often exacerbated by
Romanian fears of Hungarian irredentism, the “revisionism” of the borders,
or secessionism. These fears were not without grounds: Transylvania
alternated between Romanian and Hungarian hands, and the Hungarian state
and ethnic Hungarians staunchly believed that the Trianon Treaty and its
borders would be provisional.
In 1919, Romania signed the Minority Protections Treaty, which was to
secure cultural autonomy for the two major minorities of Transylvania: the
ethnic Hungarian and German Saxon communities were to enjoy freedom of
education and religion. However, this was poorly implemented, and both
Hungary and Germany appealed to the League of Nations to redress the
situation (Watson, 1994). Szekler nationalism emerged in Budapest through
middle-class teachers and refugees who fled to Hungary after 1919, and
some visions of Szekler autonomy emerged in these years: the
Transilvanianist Movement of the 1920s, or the Szekler National Council
proposed a federal plan and an independent republic, respectively (Bottoni,
2013). However, these plans had little resonance, as Szeklers were
committed to returning to Hungarian rule, and the interwar Hungarian
governments also felt pressured to pursue revisionism. The Second Vienna
Award, arbitrated by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, re-annexed much of
Transylvania, including Szeklerland back to Hungary between 1940 and
1944, only to further exacerbate ethnic hostilities. After the war, following
Soviet rule, the People’s Republic of Romania granted some level of
autonomy to what was named the Magyar Autonomous Region between
1952 and 1960. With a majority of 77 percent Hungarians in the region
concerned, Hungarian and Romanian were co-official languages, and
cultural production in Hungarian was allowed. The Magyar Autonomous
Region intended to reconcile civic belonging to Romania and Szekler ethnic
identity—with little success (Bottoni, 2013).
The ensuing Ceaușescu regime (1965–1989), however, put an end to any
autonomy aspirations. As opposed to Hungary, where communism got
progressively lighter after the 1956 revolution against the Soviets to the
point of calling it “goulash communism,” Romania got progressively worse
by the 1980s (Turnock, 1990). Along with Albania, Romania suffered the
most uninterrupted and oppressive Stalinist rule among Eastern European
countries. Supplies were so short people received food stamps, and did not


buy what they needed but what the stores had. “I never forget my
grandmother’s little green stool that she took at 4 am to the store to sit on
while waiting in line,” a Szekler man told me about his childhood in the
1980s. “So that when it opened, she could actually buy something,
anything.” Ceaușescu’s regime was characterized by a mixture of planned
economy, collectivized agriculture, and traditional right-wing mythologies
that exalted the homogenous nation state (Tismaneanu, 1993, p. 317).
Ceaușescu 
launched 
an 
aggressive 
assimilation 
campaign 
of
Romanianization, and the German Saxon and ethnic Hungarian minorities of
Transylvania were a serious part of development policy (Hajdú, 2013).
Saxons had either fled or were deported back to Germany, and Hungarian
towns and villages were progressively Romanianized by the influx, or forced
settlement, of Romanians as part of the communist regime’s urbanization
and 
industrialization 
efforts. 
Hungarian 
language 
schooling 
was
continuously threatened or terminated by inserting Romanian students in
Hungarian schools and switching the language of education to Romanian.
The 1989 Romanian Revolution that brought down the Ceaușescu regime
released a sense of overwhelming euphoria. “Because no matter what
anyone tells you,” a Szekler man told me,
nothing ever compared to the Revolution. Not your wedding day, not
the day your children were born. That fear that they might come for you
any night, and you were gone, and no one would ever know about you
again … nothing compares to when that’s over.
The Ceaușescu regime starved its people; disappearances, deportations, and
informant networks were rampant all the way into the late 1980s, framed by
a personality cult that had the most grotesque outgrowths. In his blind
megalomania, Ceaușescu refused to accept the Gorbachevian perestroika
that made change inevitable elsewhere in Eastern Europe, even for
communists. The Romanian Revolution stands out for its bloodshed, 1200
deaths, and the iconic images of the Ceaușescus’ summary execution over a
mere ten days.
The Romanian Revolution brought ethnic Hungarians and Romanians
together as they fought against a common enemy. There is a sense in which
the Revolution broke out as a result of ethnic cooperation: its direct
precursor was the December 16, 1989 eviction of a Hungarian protestant
pastor László Tőkés from his parish in Temesvár (Timișoara). The crowd of


the parishioners who protected him grew bigger and bigger, and the
demonstration went beyond its original cause. Anti-regime protests spread
into other cities and the capital Bucharest, and by Christmas Day the
Ceaușescus were dead. With the 1989 fall of the Berlin Wall, the prime
minister of the first post-socialist Hungarian government, Imre Antall,
emphasized in a speech the moral obligation of the “mother country”
(Hungary) to reach out to every member of the “15 million-strong”
Hungarian community, five million of which lived in neighboring countries
as a result of the 1920 Trianon Treaty.
Today, Szeklers are pessimistic about the possibility of any formal
autonomy. The Romanian constitution does not allow for a referendum about
decentralization, and the state argues that they comply with European Union
directives about minority rights. In 2018, Romanian Prime Minister Mihai
Tudose said on television that “Szekler autonomy was out of the question,”
adding that if Szeklers continued to hang Szekler flags on state institutions in
Szeklerland, those who hang these flags “will hang as well” (Hungarian Free
Press, 2018). At the same time, no political party is pushing it vehemently,
even though the Democratic Alliance of Hungarians in Romania (DAHR)
has had it on its program for several years. Realistic political voices claim
that Szekler resources and the local economy need to be strengthened for
autonomy aspirations. “It’s not the moment right now,” DAHR politician and
Csíkszereda mayor Róbert Kálmán Ráduly told me.
There have been moments, such as the moment before Romania entered
the European Union. If the question of Szekler autonomy had been
argued well and had been discussed then, perhaps something could have
started. But the moment passed. We have to wait for another one.
The Hungarian Orbán government offers considerable financial support, and
attempts to tie Szeklerland to the “mother country” through cultural means,
including sport. This follows the twentieth-century pattern whereby
Hungarian authorities actively stimulated Szekler identity production but had
no substantial plans of pursuing its autonomy or independence (Bottoni,
2013).
Szeklers’ approach to ice hockey is symptomatic of this in-between state
where they are affected by both the Hungarian and the Romanian states to
varying degrees. Instead of autonomy or independence, the Szekler aim is to
make the best, if possible, of this situation. A regional national team,


elsewhere considered as an important symbolic step before proper
nationhood, is not high on the agenda: instead, Szekler hockey actors
navigate between the Hungarian and the Romanian sport, and attempt to turn
both to their advantage. The best players aspire to play for Hungary, which
they can due to their dual citizenship, while the second line is quite content
playing for Romania. The sport also navigates between the Hungarian and
the Romanian Hockey Federations, and plays in both states’ leagues.
Csíkszereda Sportklub, the flagship hockey team of Szeklerland, plays in the
Romanian national league as well as the Erste Liga, a kind of central
European league that consists of clubs based in Hungary, Romania, and
Austria.
Szekler hockey between two states
The beginnings of Szekler hockey are an important chapter in sport history
and reflect the associative nature and creative imagination behind the
cultural diffusion of sport in marginal and isolated places. One day in 1929 a
group of friends, among them Lajos Vákár who is considered the founding
figure of Szekler hockey, went to the local movie theater in Csíkszereda.
Before the feature film, they showed a short news reel, which featured an ice
hockey game from Canada. The young men were fascinated. “But why, we
can do this, too!” They were already avid skaters due to the long and harsh
winters, but had no knowledge of the game. Since they had no access to
equipment, they reproduced it from memory of the newsreel: they made
hockey sticks from tree branches, and bought a big piece of rubber in a
confectionary for a hockey puck. They already knew how to channel the
river onto a meadow, as skating was a beloved past time in Csíkszereda.
Now they got wooden planks from a local merchant, and framed the ice into
a rink. The petit bourgeois origins of hockey are reflected by the associative
networks on which the young men relied to get equipment: the small
businesses of relatives and friends.
The first photographs from 1931 show the team wearing elegant white
shirts, ties, and vests. “The game was so new,” a 90-year-old former player
István Kovács, everybody’s “Pista bácsi,” told me as he showed me the old
photographs, “they didn’t know what to wear! But they wanted the game to
be a special event.” The first skates were two iron pads that they latched
with a key to the sole of their shoes. Eventually, a local merchant got them


proper gloves from Vienna, but a spirit of invention was necessary all the
way until the 1970s: sometimes they used frozen horse manure for a puck,
and made shin pads out of old truck parts. Championships were encounters
of cultural borrowing. “Once a Czech team gave each one of us a pair of
pants after the game,” Pista bácsi remembered. “We wore shorts, and
marveled at how well they stood our shots. It was because of those pants!
We took them home, found a similar fabric in a local textile company, and
copied them.”
The game was received with tremendous enthusiasm. In the post-Trianon
decade, which suddenly left the Szeklers under Romanian rule, the meanings
of the game went beyond a mere past time. The Csíkszereda club was
officially registered, and became the fourth one in Romania besides
Bucharest, Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca), and Chernivtsi. They played the first
game in Csíkszereda in 1931, and played in the Romanian championship in
1933. Soon, the club developed contacts with Hungarian “mother country”
sport life, traveled to Budapest, and invited Budapest teams. Between 1940
and 1944, when Transylvania was briefly once again re-annexed back to
Hungary, Sportklub played in the Hungarian championship. Szekler players
were regularly invited to the Romanian national team, and Sportklub won its
first Romanian championship title in 1949.
The urban Hungarian, Saxon, and Jewish populations of Romania
spearheaded the establishment of sport clubs, which were based on ethnic
belonging (Constantin, 2015). Old-timers remember this period as a time of
relatively normal ethnic co-existence in the sport sphere. Szekler players
generally got along with Romanian ones in training camps, championships,
and the national team. They spoke in rudimentary Romanian, and some
Romanian players learned some basic Hungarian words like szalonna (ham)
or bicska (pocket knife). For a Szekler player, playing for Romania was not
particularly problematic, and they enjoyed the social capital it granted them.
“I liked training camps in Bucharest,” one of them told me at their weekly
Thursday morning reunion, which they still hold. “There were always a lot
of girls to flirt with. We didn’t know much Romanian, but that is the best
way to learn a language,” he added with a wink. Romanians were in the
same way victims to whimsical ideologies and border revisions. “One time
at a championship abroad,” another player said, “they played an old
Romanian national anthem. They changed so often back then … I looked at
my Romanian teammate next to me, and he too realized the mistake, and


laughed, ‘you are right!’ ” Szekler players traveled with the Romanian
national team to Europe, including to Western Europe, which was a special
privilege of athletes. The team had a collective passport, which prevented
any possibility of defecting the communist country at international events.
They were going to have individual passports when they were going to go to
the Olympic Games in the USA. However, the satellite states boycotted it
and they did not go. Apart from occasional favoritism for Romanian players
in the national team, old-timers argued, the interference of ethnonationalist
politics was still rather minor.
Sport had an unparalleled ability to open the world for players, especially
within the context of a communist regime where travel to the West was
denied to anyone except loyal party members. Many young people started to
play hockey in the 1960s and 1970s because it would give them a chance to
travel. Sándor Gál, arguably the best defense player of Romanian hockey,
started playing in the 1960s in his village Zsögöd, and went on to participate
in two Olympic Games and a World Championship. The Romanian national
team beat, in 1977, the US team that was part of a generation of players that
made sport history three years later with the “miracle on ice” victory against
the Soviets. Such a trajectory would be quite unlikely today: Gál came from
a village of 1000 inhabitants, and had no proper equipment. “I had the bad
luck that,” he remembers, “when they brought in some equipment, I was at
home sick, twice! For this reason, in the first year, I worked out in the
summer only; in the winter I had no real skates” (Krónika Online, 2019).
Trips to championships in Western Europe generated small-scale informal
economies as players brought home coveted items: Kent cigarettes and nylon
panty hoses became the era’s iconic objects of desire, tangible proof of a
Western life that differed from the official state propaganda about the
“decadent West.” Also, these trips opened up the opportunity to defect, and
some hazarded it: stories circulate about a Romanian player who checked his
luggage in, went to the bathroom, and was never seen again. Gál too
received a lot of offers to play abroad, but he turned them down. “Our
parents and teachers taught us patriotism, the love of Hungarian identity and
Szeklerland, folk music, and traditions. We are attached to our mother land”
(Krónika Online, 2019). It is also true, a journalist added, that people were
highly intimidated by the communist regime. “If you defected, your relatives
who stayed at home would suffer all kinds of harassment and abuse.”
Hungarian–Romanian relations exacerbated with Ceaușescu’s nationalist,


Romanianizing agenda over the 1970s and 1980s, which reverberated all the
way into the 1990s and 2000s, and had violent manifestations in ice hockey.
Ethnic antagonism intensified through player poaching, rivalries, referee
decisions, brawls, and national anthem controversies.
Blood on the ice: the Ceaușescu-era and beyond
There is in Csíkszereda, in front of the Vákár Lajos ice rink, a statue of two
hockey players made of steel. Their silver strength and gracefulness
empathize greatly with the cold of the rink and just any winter day. There is
a saying that, in Csíkszereda, only these two Szeklers have never played in
Bucharest. In order to get exemption from compulsory military service,
Szekler players had to play either for the Romanian military sport club
Steaua București, or the police sport club Dinamo București. For Sportklub,
which for a while aspired to be the “Szekler Bilbao” for relying on home-
grown talent, the departure of a player to a Bucharest club would normally
be ultimate treason. However, dictatorial settings have a noted ability to find
the most effective rituals of subjugation, and the perspective of military
service under communism did the job. A former player, who had his military
service just about completed, remembered this about the recruitment tricks
of the Bucharest police and military clubs:
They would approach young men at the train station before they would
be boarded for their military service. I was waiting at the Kolozsvár
(Cluj-Napoca) train station before the last leg of my military training, a
brief summer session, for I was a university student. The coach of
Steaua showed up and approached me. He said, come to the military
team to play, you’ll liberate yourself from all this hassle. This was a
kind of psychological tactic, but I was almost done with my service and
didn’t need it. They accepted that.
Szekler hockey, and particularly Sportklub, assumed an increasingly
politicized, ethnicized character as it positioned itself against these two
powerful Bucharest teams that represented communist power: the military
and the police. Any victory against them would be considered “a slap in the
face for Ceaușescu,” although there were not very many victories to enjoy:
between 1963 and 1997, Sportklub did not win a single title. On the one


hand, both Steaua and Dinamo were extremely strong teams, partly because
of the obligation of Szekler players to play for them. On the other hand, like
other walks of life, not even games could always escape centrally planned
outcomes, and referee decisions favored Bucharest teams only too often.
During the Ceaușescu years, hockey games were not just a symbolic
arena of ethnic struggle, but the only space where Hungarian could be
spoken without consequences. All other linguistic manifestations were
constantly threatened or harassed. Schools and education were progressively
Romanianized. Newspapers could be printed in Hungarian, but Hungarian
city names could not. Csíkszereda could be printed only in Romanian
(Miercurea Ciuc), as if obliterating the name would somehow also erase its
problematic referent. Creative solutions emerged such as “the city on the
River Olt.” The regime banned the Csíksomlyó Pilgrimage, an important
annual Catholic mass in Hungarian. The only place where one could sing in
Hungarian for three hours and yell things without consequences was the ice
rink. Sometimes, Hungarian folk songs were re-written: here secretly
political, here vulgar and erotic. Even yelling “referee, you are a thief!” was
tolerated, by which they really meant the Romanian communist state that
stole their game, their players, and their lives. “It was rather thin ice we were
walking with that singing,” a fan remembered with an apt metaphor. “Each
time I went home after a game, I expected to be arrested. But then,
somehow, we weren’t. They tolerated it.” Hungarian folk songs became an
invisible link between players and fans, which was actively nurtured. “When
I was a coach,” Sportklub youth coach Imre Mezey remembers, “we spent
the summers in the hills with my team, training and learning Hungarian folk
songs.” To this day, fans sing an extensive repertoire of folk songs for the
duration of the game.
The 1979 youth European Championship, held in Csíkszereda, shows
how subversive national symbols can be to a neurotic dictatorship. While
folk song singing was tolerated, the singing of the Hungarian national
anthem was not. In 1979 among other teams, there was the national team of
Austria, Hungary, and Romania. The latter was full of Szekler Hungarians, a
situation that was already twisted enough. As chance would have it, Hungary
and Austria would qualify for the finals, and news spread like wildfire across
Szeklerland: the Hungarian anthem might be played publicly at an official
event! Austria was a beatable opponent. Suspecting impending scandal, the


organizers moved the game to 10 am, hoping that fewer people would attend
as they had to go to work. “It didn’t matter,” a fan remembered.
People were literally hanging from the terraces, ramps, and stairs. I
skipped school with my friends, even though I knew I’d get a warning
of suspension. I was standing near the rink, my usual spot, looked
around, and noticed something curious. It wasn’t the regular hockey
game crowd I used to see. It was elderly women and men in their best
clothes, wearing traditional Szekler costumes, suits, and scarves. They
came down from the mountains to watch the game! They heard from
their priest that the Hungarian national anthem would be played here,
and they came down to listen to it.
The game ended in a 5–5 draw, which sent the organizers into a dilemma.
Should they play both national anthems? The crowd waited for an hour until
they decided not to play either one.
Anthem-singing controversies continued into the 1990s and to the
present, particularly as the Romanian national team was increasingly
dominated by Szeklers. Under communism, when state-run sport was
stronger, it was very normal that an entire line would come from
Szeklerland: “one line from Sportklub, one from Steauea, and one from
Dinamo, roughly, for the Romania team” a player remembered. After the
collapse of the communist regime, when the state pulled out of sport and
Romanian hockey diminished substantially, it was not unusual that only one
or two players would be Romanian, the rest Hungarian. This would create a
curious spectacle each time the Romanian national team played against the
Hungarian one: players of Team Romania sang the anthem of the opposing
team. Distrust of ethno-regional players in sub-national secessionist contexts
may cause substantial anxiety for fans (Vaczi, 2015). Tihamér Becze, a
Szekler player in the Romanian side, said he received more than 200
threatening messages after such an incident, asking him what he was doing
in the Romanian national team if he was so un-patriotic as to sing the
opposing team’s anthem. The President of the Romanian Ice Hockey
Federation, himself a Szekler, rushed to calm passions by arguing that Team
Romania won that game, which clearly shows Szekler players’ dedication.
“It is a strange situation,” a former Szekler player told me about the
imposition of a symbolic identity, Romanian, through the national team; “but


you don’t approach it sentimentally. You just take it as a job that gives you
some opportunities.”
The 1990s witnessed on and off ice violence that was catalyzed by
political agitation beyond sport. Romanian nationalism blossomed in the
1990s, for example the Greater Romania Party and its controversial Vadim
Tudor; or the above-mentioned Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca) mayor Gheorghe
Funar from the Romanian National Unity Party; or the Uniunea Vatra
Românească (Romanian Hearth Union) from Marosvásárhely (Târgu
Mureș). “It was very normal that trips to Bucharest would end in a brawl,” a
fan remembered games. Local police units escorted the Szekler fans’ buses
as they traveled to Bucharest, to the point that they became friends; but those
who chose to go by car on their own “would surely not get away with it
without a beating.” Fans used the back entrance, and needed police escort
even to the bathroom. They were not allowed to exit together with the
Romanian fans. Players would be assaulted in the locker room. Even so, the
ice hall was relatively safe compared to the street. Tensions culminated when
radical nationalist football hooligans were ushered into the Bucharest ice
rink. “It was obvious they came to fight,” a Szekler fan remembered. “They
had no interest in the game and knew nothing of it; they left after the second
third, thinking it was like football!” Petards, smoke bombs and coins
showered onto the rink indiscriminately, and hospital visits were frequent for
both fans and players.
The 2000 Romanian League final between Sportklub and Steaua provided
the most iconic pictures for the ethnic tension of those years. Four minutes
before the end of the game, a fight between two players quickly escalated
and soon, both teams were entirely involved in a massive brawl. Pockets of
4–5 players were fighting across the ring; gloves and sticks were flying; the
ice became pink with blood. The three referees stood by and observed the
events. Sportklub player Salamon, a tall and forceful man, was stripped to
his white undershirt, soaked in blood, and half his face was covered in blood
too as he swung his stick around menacingly, charging at Steaua players.
“Everybody was beating everybody,” Sportklub goalkeeper Attila Nagy
remembered the game:
I can’t even remember, it just suddenly happened, and blood was
flowing. Moreover, in ice hockey, no one intervenes, some violence is
considered part of the game. The referees don’t intervene in fights, and
the police cannot walk on ice. So, it just had to pass. I remember we


insisted that the game is not invalidated; we needed that victory to win
the championship.
A final point of conflict has concerned power struggles in the everyday
operation of the Romanian Federation and the Szekler-dominated national
team. Frictions were unavoidable particularly when the Federation was run
by Romanians, and the team had a Romanian coach. Hungarian language use
in the locker room has been a source of conflict. “It happened once,” a
former Federation official said, “that the Romanian coach demanded that the
boys speak Romanian, not Hungarian. The next day the parents showed up
and took the players home.” In 2011, the Romanian player Florin Cosmin
Marinescu asked his all Szekler teammates at a U17 training camp to speak
in Romanian, as it was December 1, the Romanian National Day. “The
response was, boys, turn off the light,” a Szekler official remembers. The
Romanian player was battered and insulted.
Conclusion: agency, identity, and globalization
In spite of conflicts, hockey has constituted a social sphere where Szeklers
have been able to insert themselves, as agents, in their own history, probably
more than in most other realms of life. By making themselves, their players,
facilities, and competence indispensable for Romanian hockey, they carved
out a position from where they can successfully negotiate and assert their
interest. Szekler hockey actors make no secret about their goal to turn
Szeklerland into the ice hockey center of Romania, and establish their
dominance in the Romanian Ice Hockey Federation. Currently, there are
eight ice hockey rinks in Szeklerland, and only two beyond it in Romania.
Teams from all over Romania ask to use the state-of-the-art Szeklerland Ice
Hockey Academy facilities for training camps, to participate in their local
Transylvania League, and use Szekler ice rinks for their games. “An
interesting situation of compromise emerged,” Academy director Attila
Nagy told me. “The Romanian Federation and Romanian hockey actors have
to yield to us. They have to accept that we don’t consider this movement
‘Romanian,’ and that we also play in the Hungarian leagues.” The Romanian
national team is seen as a chance to develop and travel for Szekler players
who cannot make it into the Hungarian one. “What would make us
proudest,” Barna Tánczos, another Academy director said, “is that one day,


both the Hungarian and the Romanian national teams’ first line is made up
of Szekler players entirely. Then, we could say we did our job well.” Instead
of pursuing unviable breakaway strategies, Szeklers optimize their existing
opportunities between the two systems.
Ice hockey also shows that Szekler and Romanian subjectivities remain
mutually constitutive. There is a sense in which Szeklers need their big
Other, an adversary against whom they can construct their identity as those
“tribal” and “indomitable” subjects that they have been made out to be. This
is particularly visible in sport. “It is strange, but we do miss them,” Szekler
hockey actors said, with reference to Steaua and Dinamo (Origó, 2019). The
violence of the 1990s would be unthinkable now, while it is everyone’s
desire that Romanian hockey gets back its derbies. Furthermore, an
adversarial relationship is reckoned to counter the internal divisive
tendencies among Szeklers. “If we were given autonomy,” a politician told
me, “the next day, the city of Székelyudvarhely would stand up and say they
wanted to be independent from the Szekler state; and then Sepsiszentgyörgy;
and then Csíkcsicsó, just to give you an example, and so on.” As a fan put it,
the Romanian state “miscalculated” by “just not leaving Szeklers to their
own devices,” for the moment it had, Szeklers would have weakened
themselves by vicious infighting. Dissent is also demonstrated by the
conflicting opinions that Szeklerland Ice Hockey Academy, sponsored by the
Hungarian state, has created among Szekler hockey stakeholders.
Specters of shrinking continue to haunt Szeklers and their sport. The
motivations behind the establishment of the Hockey Academy point at
another adversarial force: globalization. By the 2010s, approximately 30
percent of Szekler youth players had transferred to clubs in Hungary, and the
state-of-the-art Academy was established in 2016 with the vision to keep
them at home with their families. How Szeklers will live through the
challenges of globalization, and what role hockey will play in it, remains to
be seen.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Előd Antal, Krisztina Becze, Tihamér Becze, Zoltán
Becze, Imre Csató-Kovács, István Kovács, Imre Mezey, Attila Nagy, Előd
Papp, Róbert Kálmán Ráduly, Barna Tánczos, Csíkszereda Sportklub, Tamás


László and the Lokálpatrióták fan club, and the Szeklerland Hockey
Academy staff for their hospitality, time, and direction.
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Chapter 9
Two styles of engagement
Kurds and football in Turkey1
Ömer Turan
Introduction
At a meeting in Ankara on 27 November 2019, Turkish Minister of Interior
Süleyman Soylu lobbed explicit accusations against Amedspor, a second
league football club from Diyarbakır, followed soon after by the media:
Do you know what Qandil’s latest problem is? I’ll tell you, it’s
Amedspor. Oh, what do you do? Cemil Bayık is actually giving the
order to ‘find 400,000 to 500,000 lira a month from here and there for
Amedspor’. It’s a political party that the terrorist organisation supports.
It’s a sports club to which a terrorist organisation gives direct orders.
Could such a thing be the case? Could such a thing be done? Cemil
Bayık explicitly gave the order to ‘support Amedspor’. Are we not
going to hear this?
Soylu believes that leaders of the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (Partiya
Karkerên Kurdistanê, PKK), which is based in permanent camps in the
Qandil Mountains of Iraq, bolstered a donation campaign to support
Amedspor. The PKK is a clandestine, militant organisation founded by
Abdullah Öcalan that has actively fought against the Turkish state since
1984. It began as an armed separatist organisation but modified its original


objectives after the 1990s, declaring that it sought ‘a solution within
Turkey’ to the Kurdish question (Çiçek, 2017, p. 43). Yet Turkish officials
have underestimated this reformulation, and the accusations of the interior
minister were a reflection of this mind set. The next day, Amedspor
President Metin Kılavuz announced that the Turkish Football Federation
and government inspectors, with support from the Ministry of Interior, were
auditing Amedspor and he added that Amedspor was fully transparent in
terms of its financial records, without any wrongdoing.
This recent episode aptly summarises the key question of this chapter,
which analyses the entanglement of Kurdish political identity with football
and focuses on two Diyarbakır football clubs: Amedspor and
Diyarbakırspor. Amedspor plays in the Turkish second league and
Diyarbakırspor now plays in the third league.
These two clubs represent two different syntheses of football and
Kurdish identity. Amedspor is owned by the Diyarbakır Metropolitan
Municipality, which the Kurdish political movement governed between
1999 and 2016; and Diyarbakırspor was known previously as a platform in
which the central government was closely interested. The central
government appropriated Diyarbakırspor as a tool with which to limit the
Kurdish political demands. Former Diyarbakır Chief of Police Gaffar
Okkan had expressed interest in the club between 1997 and 2001 when
Diyarbakırspor managed to qualify for the Turkish Süper Lig (Super
League) for the first time in fourteen years.
The structure of the club is a major source of these engagement styles, of
which one is explicitly political and the other is more politically neutral.
The chapter starts with an overview, giving some snapshots about Kurds
and the sphere of football in Turkey. The second section focuses on
Diyarbakırspor, with a particular emphasis on the club’s history and its
political stance. The third section focuses on Amedspor, where the
emphasis on Kurdishness and the Kurdish political movement’s position is
visible. In the second and third sections, the chapter discusses the ways in
which spectators of other teams view Diyarbakırspor and Amedspor with
nationalist stereotypes at away matches, accusing these clubs of being
separatist.
Kurds in Turkey and the sphere of football


What does ‘the Kurdish question’ mean? The history of the Turkish
republic is that of assimilation, of constructing a homogenous nation-state
composed of Sunni-Turks. This means that since the early republican
period, officials have perceived Kurds as a group they must absorb into
Turkish identity. Put differently, the essence of the Kurdish question was
and still is that Kurds in Turkey have no right to live with a visible Kurdish
identity. The public use of the Kurdish language has faced systematic
prohibition since 1925. Historian Hamit Bozarslan (2004, p. 29) maintains
that language was the new criterion of distinction between majority and
minority. Numerous instances have emerged that framed the Kurds as a
source of insecurity since the early republican reforms. Starting with the
onset of single-party rule (1923–1946), the discourse of the Turkish state on
the Kurds was predicated on the denial of Kurdishness and their political
visibility (Yeğen, 1999).
The backlash to this state repression was the rise of Kurdish political
groups in the late 1970s. Following the 1980 coup, the PKK became a
major political actor and monopolised the Kurdish political movement. In
1990, the People’s Labour Party (Halkın Emek Partisi, HEP) was
established as the first legal Kurdish political party. Since then, they have
formed seven successive Kurdish political parties, all of which have been
closed down due to Constitutional Court rulings. Currently, the largest
Kurdish party is the Peoples’ Democratic Party (Halkların Demokrasi
Partisi, HDP). This means that, since 1990, the Kurdish political movement
has synchronised the armed struggle and legal political means. Starting in
1999, the Kurdish political movement has maintained a series of electoral
victories in Kurdish cities, opening new trajectories for localism and claims
of cultural identity (Watts, 2010).
Under these circumstances, the sphere of football was a limited milieu
for Kurds to express their political standpoint and identity. Four different
snapshots illustrate the experience of being a Kurd in the Turkish sphere of
football. The first snapshot is from a friendly match between
Diyarbakırspor and Galatasaray played in Diyarbakır in the 1995–1996
season. Journalist Ragıp Duran (1993) noted that Kurds in Turkey are
mostly supporters of Galatasaray, one of Istanbul’s three dominant clubs.
What is the reason for this inclination? Galatasaray’s colours are yellow and
red, and, according to Duran, with the combination of the players’ jerseys
with the green grass of the pitch Kurds see the three colours symbolising


the Kurdish nation. Diyarbakırspor played in Turkey’s second league this
season. At a special match, a spectator in the Diyarbakırspor stands raised a
sign that read: ‘We love you. And we love who loves you’ (Arhan, 2012, p.
87). The first of these two sentences is a message to Galatasaray. The
second sentence is a message to Abdullah Öcalan, the founder of the PKK
and someone the entire public knows to be an ardent Galatasaray supporter.
Galatasaray’s venturing to Diyarbakır for a special match, although through
relatively concealed means, must have been deemed an opportunity for
Diyarbakırspor supporters to send Öcalan a message.
The second snapshot is from the Werder Bremen–Galatasaray match
played during the Cup Winners’ Cup on 4 March 1992. In the match’s
thirtieth minute, as many as 100 PKK sympathisers on the Bremen
grandstands raised the yellow, red and green flag of the PKK. PKK
sympathisers in Europe, different than the Kurds in Turkey, supported not
Galatasaray but its opponent. Approximately 20,000 Galatasaray
supporters, most of whom were Euro-Turks living in Germany, showed up
to watch the match. They responded to the unfurled flags with a declaration
of ‘PKK raus’ (Duran, 1992). In subsequent years, PKK flags appeared in
the stands numerous times at matches Turkish teams played in Europe. The
atmosphere of conflict in Turkey reflected in the tension in the European
sphere of football.
The third snapshot is from the away matches that Diyarbakırspor played
in the second league in the 1990s. Diyarbakırspor was equated with the
PKK at these matches, though the club and football team had not adopted a
visible political stance. Supporters of opponent teams frequently chanted
slogans such as ‘PKK Out’, ‘Damn You, PKK’, ‘Murderers Out’ and
‘Martyrs Are Immortal, the Homeland Is Indivisible’.
The fourth snapshot was the statement of defender Şeyhmuz Suna, who
played for Turkey’s fourth-largest club, Trabzonspor, between 1990 and
1993. Suna is a native of Diyarbakır, and in 1993 he stated, ‘I am not
drafted to the national team because I am a Kurd’ (Duran, 1993). Suna
made this statement to Özgür Gündem, a newspaper close to the Kurdish
movement newspaper. Suna’s outburst allegedly prompted his dismissal
from Trabzonspor.
An overall look at these four snapshots from the 1990s raises the
question of how Kurdish (political) identity is entangled with football. A
simple answer to this question would be that the Kurds did not see football


as a platform to showcase national pride in the 1990s, and that they were
often followers of the hegemonic teams in Istanbul, as was the case around
Turkey. Nevertheless, the sphere of football sometimes is considered a
milieu through which political choices are amplified. Second, we face a
practice of exclusion. Diyarbakırspor, despite having no political
engagements, is equated to the PKK, merely because it is the team of a
Kurdish city. The tension constructed through discrimination and armed
conflict across Turkish society is reflected directly in football.
Diyarbakırspor’s troublesome dual identity
It is not surprising that Diyarbakır is a milieu in Kurds’ engagement with
football. For many Kurds, Diyarbakır is the symbolic capital of Kurdish
identity. With its population around 1,700,000, today’s Diyarbakır is an
urban centre in south-eastern Turkey. The old city in Diyarbakır is
surrounded by sublime Roman city walls and due to the population boom
since the 1990s, the city has several new neighbourhoods. Today, the city
has both upper-middle-class and poor neighbourhoods. Interaction in the
urban space is frequently in Turkish, but most of the city dwellers know
Kurdish at different levels. Since the 1990s, Diyarbakır is the stronghold of
the Kurdish political movement and central hub of the Kurdish lifeworld.2
The Diyarbakırspor club was founded in 1968 but failed to achieve
stability despite playing some seasons in the first league.3 Starting in 1996,
Diyarbakırspor became one of the strongest teams in the second league and
entered the competition to ascend to the first league. According to Tanıl
Bora, an influential social scientist and prominent figure in football studies
in Turkey, the state began to support teams in cities where Kurds lived in
eastern and south-eastern Turkey during the 1990s to help them ascend to
the first league. Within the context of this officially unannounced goal,
Vanspor, which ascended to the first league in 1994, was the first to receive
support. The same process of budget transfers from the provincial
governorate to the local team in Van occurred in the case of Diyarbakır as
well. However, state support for Diyarbakırspor was not limited merely to
budgeting. A book by local journalist Faruk Arhan provides intriguing
details about this issue. For example, former Turkish Football Federation
President Haluk Ulusoy in a statement said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get you up to


the [first] league’ (Arhan, 2012, p. 101). Referees with military roots were
employed at Diyarbakırspor matches, and the number of penalties awarded
in favour of Diyarbakırspor peaked at twenty-four one season.
In 1997, Gaffar Okkan was appointed to Diyarbakır as the new Chief of
Police. Okkan’s policing style was new as he encouraged the policemen to
be gentle towards the locals. For him, football was the tool which would
achieve amity between the state and the people of Diyarbakır. In
conversations with journalists, Okkan listed his objectives of shrinking the
People’s Democracy Party’s (Halkın Demokrasi Partisi, HADEP) share of
the vote to below 10 per cent, and getting Diyarbakır up to the first league.
Okkan attended training sessions with the football players. With Okkan’s
initiative, 700 police officers became members of the club. Diyarbakırspor
President Mehmet İpek was unhappy with Okkan’s growing influence
within the club, and Okkan was aware of this discontent, too. In June 1999,
the Diyarbakır police detained İpek for alleged prostitution taking place at
his hotel. İpek was later temporarily arrested. He was removed from his
position as president, and was replaced by Adnan Öktüren. Gaffar Okkan’s
operation was successful. Incoming president Öktüren immediately visited
President Bülent Ecevit and the General Staff Second Director Yaşar
Büyükanıt, and requested the support of the state. According to Öktüren,
Diyarbakırspor should ascend to the first league, otherwise the PKK and its
affiliates in the region would grow stronger (Arhan, 2012, p. 99).
In this environment, as state support became more visible, the reactions
Diyarbakırspor encountered at its away matches also diversified. On the one
hand, a discourse of hate speech with the view that ‘PKK = terrorists = all
Kurds’ targeted Diyarbakırspor. On the other hand, supporters of the club’s
opponents criticised Diyarbakırspor, calling them the ‘bastards of the state’
(Bora, 2010). A rift began to appear within the process between the state
support offered to Diyarbakırspor and the attitudes of Diyarbakırspor
supporters. We see from the results of the Diyarbakırspor metropolitan
municipal mayoral elections since 1999 that the Kurdish political
movement won five elections with the support of more than 50 per cent of
voters. This indicates that adequate data exist to highlight the Diyarbakır
urban population’s support for the Kurdish political movement. This
support periodically revealed itself on the Diyarbakırspor terraces. For
instance, after a victorious match in Diyarbakır in 1998, about 15,000
supporters marched to HADEP’s office in the city centre, voiced chants in


favour of HADEP and greeted the politicians there with slogans of ‘We are
proud of you, Diyarbakır’. Starting in the early 1990s, parallel to the rising
death count of soldiers in battles with the PKK, football stands around
Turkey adopted more nationalistic tones. The consequence of these
nationalist winds impelled the Turkish Football Federation to play the
Independence March before matches. Suspicious glances again turned
toward Diyarbakırspor after this decision. According to some journalists,
Diyarbakırspor football players did not sing the national anthem loud
enough but were only lip-syncing. Most important, however, was the
response in the Diyarbakırspor terraces to the Independence March. Kurds
who remained silent and abstained from the national anthem, after it ended,
began to sing the Kurdish Herne Peş march, whose words were written by
the Kurdish nationalist poet Cegerxwîn (1903–1984). When the police later
banned the singing of this march, the fans opted to whistle it instead.4 The
rising Kurdish political movement on the one hand, and the negative
stigmatisation and insults, on the other hand, fortified the emphasis of the
Diyarbakırspor fans within Kurdishness.
The 2000–2001 season attained critical importance for Diyarbakırspor.
In the middle of the season, on 20 January 2001, Gaffar Okkan was
assassinated in the centre of the city. State support for Diyarbakırspor
continued after his murder. The atmosphere became politicised in the
second league, and nearly every referee call became an issue of debate.
Diyarbakırspor, playing in Diyarbakır, won the match against Kombassan
Konyaspor with a score of 5–1. At the match, Konyaspor players received
four red cards. Upon the end of the match, then member of parliament for
Konya, Mehmet Keçiciler issued a statement: ‘If the Federation decided to
bring Diyarbakırspor up to the first league, let them find other formulas.
Fairness should be guaranteed on the pitch’.
The Diyarbakırspor–Altay match played in Diyarbakır towards the end
of the season on 13 May 2001 was something like a lynch attempt the club
had organised with official support. We can summarise the lynch
atmosphere created at the match, which Diyarbakırspor won 3–1, in five
steps. First, Turkish Radio and Television Corporation (TRT) removed the
match from its live broadcast programming. Two, journalists from
Diyarbakır freely went about their work, while journalists coming from
Izmir and Istanbul were locked in a room by an official. Three, 150 officials
with badges waited on the edge of the pitch and physically interfered with


the Altay players. Four, small explosive substances and stones were hurled
onto the pitch throughout the match. Five, during halftime, the exhaust of a
working generator was released into the Altay locker room. Altay Coach
Turgut Uçar said after the match, ‘I thought we wouldn’t be able to get out
of there. I felt the fear of death for the first time in my life’ (Arhan, 2012).
In the words of Tanıl Bora (2010), while the ‘Kurdish team’ identity
made Diyarbakırspor antipathetic in the eyes of Turkish nationalists, the
‘officially favoured team’ title made them unappealing to football fans in
the public. Diyarbakirspor was aware of this tension, and carried a sign
saying ‘We are not anyone’s team but the people’s’ at the final match of the
season. When Diyarbakırspor ascended to the first league, not only
Diyarbakır citizens but residents of other Kurdish provinces such as Urfa,
Mardin and Hakkari held demonstrations of joy and celebrated this
achievement.
Diyarbakırspor played in the highest league for five seasons before
falling back to the second league at the end of the 2005–2006 season. They
returned to the Super League during the 2009–2010 season. Bursaspor and
Diyarbakırspor played a match during the seventh week of this season. A
group of supporters for Bursaspor, known for its Turkish nationalist
inclination, made special preparations for this match. The terraces were full
of signs adorned with ‘How happy is the one who says I am a Turk’ (Ne
Mutlu Türküm Diyene), Ataturk’s famous slogan that represents the
foundation of Turkish nationalism. The insults of Bursaspor supporters
began on the grounds that ‘they didn’t applaud the declaration “Damn you,
PKK” ’, and these hostile statements persisted throughout the match.
Although the rules require special announcements, no such announcements
were made. Slogans of ‘PKK Out’ and insults such as ‘Apo’s Bastards’ and
‘Armenian Bastards’ echoed around the stadium. Expletives were lobbed at
renowned Kurdish politicians Leyla Zana and Ahmet Türk. Stones were
thrown into the Diyarbakırspor terraces. After the match, Diyarbakırspor
President Çetin Sümer, in a statement to a Kurdish broadcast of Voice of
America, said: ‘We do not want help from the state. If we did, they would
call us the “state team”. We are Diyarbakır’s team. We are the team of the
Kurdish nation’ (Aslan, 2009).
Then president of the Diyarbakırspor Supporters Union Association,
Ramazan Tugay, described the Bursaspor match in a 2012 interview:


What happened at that match was much different. If you repeat to a
person ten times, ‘You are Armenian. You are Armenian. You are
Armenian’, that person, in the end, will break and say, ‘I am
Armenian’. If you repeat to people ten times, ‘You are PKK’, people in
the end, will break and say, ‘I am PKK’. They are provocative.
Wherever we went, they chanted slogans of ‘Martyrs are immortal, the
homeland is indivisible!’ and ‘Damn you, PKK!’ And they do this only
when they play against Diyarbakırspor. Do they chant such slogans
when Bursaspor plays Fenerbahçe, for example? Let me say this, they
cannot love their flag as much as we do. Their only action was to
cower behind the flag. After everything they did, they pull out the flag
and hide behind it. The flag is not loved through demonstration; the
flag is loved from the heart. If they go to Çanakkale,5 they will see that
the Kurdish Mehmets and Turkish Mehmets lie side by side.6
(Korkmaz, 2012)
Tugay’s descriptions are intriguing in viewing the relational dimension of
the Kurdish identity. In subsequent matches, supporters on the
Diyarbakırspor terrace held posters that said: ‘Our skin and our eyes are
different colours, but the colour of our running tears is the same’, ‘You owe
us an apology’ and ‘We are Kurds. We are proud. And what are you?’
In the second half of the season, on 6 March, Diyarbakır hosted
Bursaspor. Diyarbakırspor supporters had long awaited this match with a
spirit of vengeance. Stones and water bottles rained down onto the pitch
throughout the mere seventeen minutes that the match lasted. Bursaspor
was forced to flee to the locker room. With a ruling from the Federation, the
match was recorded as a Bursaspor victory. The following week, this time
at an Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality Belediyespor away match,
Diyarbakırspor received grave penalties for two matches 
when
Diyarbakırspor supporters invaded the pitch. The most important
punishment was that their remaining home games would be played without
spectators. They lost seven of the final eight matches and descended the
first league. The management crises at the club worsened when the team
fell to the bottom of the first league, and they were successively and swiftly
relegated. The team was promoted to the highest professional league in
Turkey, with visible official support, and this made its position dubious in
terms of fair play. They had been subjected to hate speech in away matches,


but officials were reluctant to take necessary precautions to prevent hate
speech in the sphere of football, causing further problems for the team.
‘Resist Diyarbakır resist:’ Amedspor
As Diyarbakırspor descended to lower leagues with diminishing support
due to management upheaval and a crisis the binary identity fundamentally
created, a new football team in Diyarbakır began to rise: Amedspor.
Moreover, this time, the owner of the club was the municipality – it was a
club that moved beyond ‘state support’.
As the Kurdish political movement stepped back from secessionism and
began pursuing a strategy of the ‘Democratisation of Turkey’, it directed
particular attention towards local electoral success, which began in the 1999
local elections with victories in thirty-seven municipalities and entering the
parliament in Ankara. Local governments run by the Kurdish political
movement had an immense impact on the flourishing visibility of a Kurdish
lifeworld. In 2010, Kurdish municipalities in eastern and south-eastern
Turkey decided to begin printing in both Kurdish and Turkish water bills,
marriage certificates, construction and road signs and emergency, social and
cultural notices (Boyraz and Turan, 2016). The use of the Kurdish language
became more widespread and visible in the public sphere. With the
commencement of peace talks between the Turkish state and the PKK,
municipalities in Kurdish cities found greater opportunities to display their
identities and worldviews. Amedspor was a by-product of this context.
Diyarbakır Belediyespor club was founded in 1993 when the Islamist
Welfare Party (Refah Partisi) was in power in the Diyarbakır Metropolitan
Municipality. Its colours were green and white. In 1999, when Feridun
Çelik was elected metropolitan mayor from HADEP, he changed the name
of the club to Diyarbakır Metropolitan Municipality DİSKİspor.7
DİSKİspor was in the second league during the 2007–2008 season, after
which it fell back to the third league. In 2010, DİSKİspor was dropped from
the club’s name and the club has since then been called Diyarbakır
Metropolitan Belediyespor. The team earned promotion to the second
league in 2013 when it changed its colours to green and red.
In 2014, the name of the club changed again, this time to Amedspor
(Işık, 2019).8 Thus, the city’s Kurdish name became the name of the


football team.9 In the days when the name change materialised, Amedspor
faced off against Galatasaray in the Turkish Cup. Signs in the terrace
reiterated the posters Diyarbakırspor supporters waved during the match
with Galatasaray years before: ‘We love you, we love the one who love you
even more’ (Dorsey, 2015). As the peace process continued, the fans in the
terraces once more delivered a message to PKK leader Öcalan.
The 2015–2016 season for Amedspor is pertinent in the context of this
chapter’s main question of how Kurdish political identity became entangled
with football. The club played in the quarter-finals for the Turkish Cup as a
second league team. Before this season had begun, the political context had
shifted drastically, starting in the summer of 2015. The peace process
crumbled that year, and young Kurds dug trenches in Diyarbakır, Sur, Cizre,
Nusaybin, Silopi, İdil and other Kurdish cities in south-eastern Turkey,
accompanied by symbolic declarations of autonomy. The AKP government
responded solely with militarist means to backfill the trenches. When
militarism once again became the dominant framework for spatial control in
Turkey’s Kurdish cities and towns, the stage was set to proceed with urban
warfare. While one party in this battle was the Revolutionary Patriotic
Youth Movement (Yurtsever Devrimci Gençlik Hareketi, YDG-H), the
youth wing of the PKK seeking to defend their ‘liberated zone’ behind the
trenches, the other was the state security forces, comprising gendarmerie
and police brigades. The state security forces adopted a harsh demeanour to
win the urban war to the extent of affording to decimate everyday life in
parts of the city. To this end, the state resorted to strict measures including
all-day and open-ended curfews and forcibly removing civilian populations.
The beginning of the urban war meant return to militarism with a high
human cost (Turan, 2019). Various reports by the Office of the UN High
Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR), Amnesty International and
local human rights organisations detail the casualties and other human costs
in this phase of the conflict. The UN OHCHR report covers the period
between July 2015 and December 2016, focusing on the security operations
conducted by the Turkish government. The OHCHR report estimates that
‘some 2,000 people were killed between July 2015 and August 2016,
including local residents, amongst whom were women and children, as well
as close to 800 members of the security forces’. This notes the deaths of
approximately 1,200 residents of whom an unspecified number may have
been involved in violent or non-violent actions against the state. The


Human Rights Foundation of Turkey (TİHV, 2016) report states that 321
civilian residents were killed between 16 August 2015 and 16 August 2016,
including seventy-nine children, seventy-one women and thirty people over
the age of sixty. Another key item in the OHCHR report is the destruction
of urban space in several Kurdish cities. The OHCHR (2017) report states
that ‘since July 2015, the ongoing security operations have caused
substantive damage to housing, business and public buildings and spaces in
South-East Turkey, ranging from minimal damage to extensive destruction’,
most notably in Nusaybin, Sur (in Diyarbakır city centre) and Şırnak. The
OHCHR report estimates that 70 per cent of buildings in the eastern part of
the Sur neighbourhood were destroyed by shelling, and 45,000 residents
fled the area.
Under these circumstances, Amedspor played Istanbul Başakşehir in the
Turkish Cup on 28 January 2016 in Istanbul. Prominent Turkish football
anthropologist John McManus describes the game:
To an almost empty stadium, the Amedspor fans started chanting:
‘Everywhere is Cizre, everywhere is resistance’; and ‘Don’t let
children die, let them come to matches’.10 Bilal Akkalu, a twenty-
eight-year-old Amedspor fan, told me about the response they received
from the security forces. He described being arrested by the police,
beaten, shoved into the back of a van and handcuffed with his hands
behind his back. Some of his friends had their legs broken, and one had
his arm broken. Bilal says he was held for twenty-four hours, twenty of
which he remained without food or water. He was released, but when
we spoke he still had an ongoing court case. News sources reported the
detention of nearly one hundred people.
(McManus, 2019, p. 322)
A group of Amedspor supporters explained the declaration of ‘let the
children not die; let them come to the match’ by Ramazan Tugay, a leader
of the ‘resistance’ and previous president of the Diyarbakırspor Supporters
Union Association:
Our friends wrote this tune before the cup match we would play with
Başakşehir. When we sing that march, we allude to all children. They
said, ‘You’re making PKK propaganda’. Our friends sang this song in


the stands, and they were detained after the match. I truly want to
scream. If only everyone could scream freely. I say this candidly, I
want to scream in stadiums so that people don’t die. I want to scream to
bring peace, love, and brotherhood. But I cannot scream. If this were a
free democracy, if there was freedom of thought, this would not be the
case.
(Olcan, 2019)
Few objections emerged from Turkish society in the wartime environment
that dominated Kurdish provinces and in a more intense manner. The
exception of this was when Ayşe Çelik, a teacher from Diyarbakır speaking
live on a television show, said: ‘Are you aware of what is happening in the
country’s east? The media cites what is happening here very differently. Do
not remain silent … People should not be dying, children should not be
dying, mothers should not be crying’.11 More than 2,000 academics signed
a declaration entitled ‘We will not be a party to this crime!’ Of these
signatories, who would be named the Academics for Peace, some went to
prison and hundreds lost their jobs or were dismissed from public positions.
Amedspor supporters sought to challenge the wartime atmosphere. The
Turkish Football Federation issued the club both monetary fines and the
penalty of playing without spectators with the justification that Amedspor
supporters had made ideological declarations. Football player Semih
Şentürk, who was from Başakşehir, scored a goal and, after scoring, made a
military salute.12 The Turkish Football Federation did not punish him,
because it did not consider this salute ideological, unlike, according to this
logic, the slogan ‘let the children not die’.
Amedspor, despite its penalties, emerged from the group of four in the
Turkish Cup and was paired with Bursaspor in the round of the final
sixteen. The match, on 31 January 2016, was heavily influenced by the
tension Bursaspor had experienced with Diyarbakırspor in previous years.
A speaker for a national TV channel (A Haber) that broadcast the match
live never once mentioned the name Amedspor and characterised the team
as ‘they’. Amedspor won the match with two goals: the first from Ercan
Çapar in the twentieth minute and the second from Deniz Naki in the sixty-
fifth minute. Bursaspor’s one goal came in minute 90+4, ending the match
with a score of 2–1 and eliminating Bursaspor from the cup. The fact that a
player like Deniz Naki was one of the important names on the team line-up


deserves mention as a key difference between Diyarbakırspor and
Amedspor. People close to Kurdish politics were, for years, discontented
with Diyarbakırspor for having no players with Kurdish names such as
Baran or Azad. Only a minority of players were from Diyarbakır and the
team was basically a community of apolitical players. Deniz Naki was not
from Diyarbakır but he openly said, ‘I am proud to be Kurdish and Alevi’.
Naki, born in Germany, had played at St Pauli and SC Paderborn and later
came to Gençlerbirliği in the Turkish Super League. He left Gençlerbirliği
because he was attacked after making anti-ISIS statements on social media.
One of his arms bears a tattoo of the Kurdish word ‘Azadi’ (meaning
freedom), and the other, ‘Dersim’,13 where his family is from. Naki’s
political stance corresponded to the spirit of Amedspor.
Deniz Naki made this statement after the Bursaspor match:
Today was a very important victory for us. We left this dirty match,
operated against our favour, with our heads held high. In a difficult
period such as this, we experience the happiness and pride of being the
light, however small, for our people. We did not and will not bow our
heads as Amedspor. We went out on the field with our belief in
freedom, and we won. Because we planted saplings of freedom and
hope. We owe a debt of thanks to all our politicians, artists,
intellectuals and people who did not abandon us, and we commemorate
and gift this victory in the name of those who have lost their lives and
our brethren injured in the oppression that has lasted for more than fifty
days on our lands. Her biji Azadi (Long live freedom).
(Fanatik, 2016)
After this statement, Deniz Naki received a twelve-game suspension and a
penalty of 19,500 liras. The club was fined 25,000 liras and penalised one
match without spectators. Fenerbahçe, known as one of the three largest
football clubs in the country, faced Amedspor in a subsequent tour at the
Turkish Cup. The first match, on 9 February 2016, was played without
spectators because of Amedspor’s penalty. I above mentioned one
difference between Diyarbakırspor and Amedspor and here mention a
second: the overlap of sports and politics for Diyarbakırspor emerged with
the concealed references of its supporters. But Amedspor, as a team of a
municipality managed by the Kurdish political movement, had management


that did not stray far from politics. An example of this arose on the pitch at
the Amedspor–Fenerbahçe match with a sign that read: ‘Don’t let the
children die, let them come to the match’. In other words, the club had
adopted the statement that its supporters had made and that had prompted
its punishment. With this shared position, Amedspor raised its voice against
‘urban war’, which was ongoing at the period and had taken the lives of
civilians. The sign, formed with red and green letters on a white
background, certainly belonged to Amedspor. But Fenerbahçe players took
photographs with the Amedspor players before the match began. If we are
to consider the distance of the sphere of football from politics, we must not
undervalue the significance of this gesture. When the match began,
Amedspor players did not move from their spots for almost a minute to
protest the penalties they had received from the previous match.
Meanwhile, Fenerbahçe players passed the ball amongst themselves. The
match ended in a 3–3 draw. Fenerbahçe won the second match in Istanbul,
eliminating Amedspor. Amedspor received a 5,000 lira fine because of the
sign (Evrensel, 2016).
Amedspor still plays in Turkey’s second league. With the state of
emergency declared in 2016, the government removed the HDP co-mayors
of Diyarbakır and appointed a kayyum (state-appointed trustee) in their
place. HDP won in Diyarbakır again, as expected, in the elections held on
31 March 2019. The following August, the co-mayors were again removed
from their positions, and were replaced with kayyums. The kayyum
appointments challenged Amedspor managerially and financially because
the kayyum explicitly restricted the opportunities presented to Amedspor in
the ways in which he sought to reverse the steps taken in the HDP’s
understanding of local government.
Amedspor supporters, and primarily the Resistance group, still supported
their team and did not refrain from mixing sports and politics while doing
this. For Amedspor, which finished off recent seasons unsuccessfully, the
tune of ‘resist, yeah, Diyarbakır resist’ corresponded to Amedspor’s status.
When the team wins a match, the supporters invite the players onto the
terraces and sing this song together.14 The Resistance group communicates
with the Werder Bremen, Nürnberg, Borussia Dortmund and St Pauli fan
groups in Germany. St Pauli supporters organised an aid campaign for the
Resistance, money from which they transferred to the women’s football
team. The Resistance commemorates people of a certain political colour


with its choreography in the grandstands. Murdered Diyarbakır Bar
President Tahir Elçi, the leftist filmmaker Yılmaz Güney, the revolutionary
musician Ahmet Kaya and important figure in Kurdish music and Armenian
musician Aram Tigran were among the names the Resistance
commemorated in the grandstands (Olcan, 2019).
Amedspor continues to face insults and violence at its away games. The
Sakaryaspor–Amedspor match played in October 2018 in Adapazarı was a
scene for both symbolic and physical violence. Before the match began, as
players from the two teams warmed up on the pitch, the massive screens in
the stadium displayed operations the Turkish Armed Forces had conducted
in Turkey against the PKK. The message that troops dispatched with
helicopters, armoured vehicles and weapons gave equated the opponent on
the field with the PKK. With the conclusion of the match, Sakaryaspor
supporters first attacked the Amedspor club and later stormed the
Amedspor locker room and assaulted the football players and technical
team.15
Concluding remarks
A recent survey conducted by the sociologist Mesut Yeğen, between May
2013 and May 2015, indicates that nearly half the Kurds living in Turkey
support an independent Kurdish state (Yeğen et al., 2016, pp. 23, 135).
Yeğen notes that this finding is surprising because the current Kurdish
political movement does not acknowledge secessionism as a political
objective. Yeğen’s argument is especially important when we contextualise
Kurds’ engagement with football in Turkey in the global sphere of sports
and secessionism. The overview this chapter provided signals that the
Kurdish presence does not inject secessionism into the sphere of football in
Turkey. The community of football supporters in Diyarbakır demonstrate
their care for the competition of Istanbul clubs, as is the case in many other
Turkish cities, and they sometimes make political statements, for instance,
by mobilising references to Galatasaray. This suggests that the Kurds of
Diyarbakır adore football within the context of Turkey and that it is
impossible to comprehend Diyarbakır’s football imagination without
acknowledging multiple identities and belongings. Having said that, this
overview also shows that on many occasions, even Turkish football fans
and sometimes officials – referring back to the statement by Interior


Minister Süleyman Soylu quoted at the beginning of the chapter – associate
the names Diyarbakır and Amed with the Kurdish movement, hence
secessionism. The two distinct styles discussed here – Diyarbakırspor’s and
Amedspor’s styles of mixing football with politics – diverge in many ways
to emphasise Kurdish identity, but reactions to them are remarkably similar.
In other words, regardless of whether Kurdish identity is visibly emphasised
or not, both styles face harsh reactions.
What conclusion might we derive from comparatively evaluating the
different styles of Diyarbakırspor and Amedspor? Certainly, one should
note, the politicisation of football is more restricted in the case of
Diyarbakır. As Tanıl Bora (2005) noted once, some political actors in
Diyarbakır were upset by seeing that Diyarbakırspor is not an Athletic
Bilbao. Amedspor’s style is much more politicised. One reason for this
difference is chronology; Amedspor is a club at a time when Kurdish
identity gained visibility and support from the local government. Alan
Bairner (2001, p. 165) has noted that ‘it is usually in the behaviour and
attitudes of fans rather than those of the participants that the relationship
between sport and identity becomes most apparent’. Diyarbakırspor is a
good example of this: a politically neutral club with fans who may
occasionally express a politicised Kurdish identity. The composition is
drastically different in the case of Amedspor: as the fan leader Ramazan
Tugay’s story indicates, we can assume that Amedspor shares the same pool
of fans as Diyarbakırspor. However, we see that the municipality-owned
club has, by default, a more politicised position. Deniz Naki, both as a
player and as a public figure tells us that in the case of Amedspor the
relationship between sport and identity is not limited to fans.
In his book, The Kurds of Turkey, political scientist Cuma Çiçek argues
that in the Kurdish region of Turkey there are three blocs: national bloc,
religious blocs and economic elites. Çiçek claims that these blocs have
different priorities in mobilising resources, and adds that the central state
interferes with the interaction of Kurdish groups due to its infrastructural
and despotic powers. According to Çiçek (2017, p. 73), while they do have
certain national sensitivities, ‘the Kurdish economic elite follows politics of
balance between central and local regional political powers’. The history of
Diyarbakırspor and the club’s success in qualifying for the Turkish premier
league in 2001 could be seen as cooperation between Kurdish economic
elites and the central state. The powerful figure of Gaffar Okkan, the


Diyarbakır police chief, symbolised the despotic power of the state that
intervened in sports competition. In some instances, prompting us to
consider the intervention of state infrastructural power, the Turkish Football
Federation protected Diyarbakırspor. Whereas for Amedspor, there exists
the direct involvement of the Kurdish national bloc and Kurdish political
movement, which impact levels of politicisation differently.
The duality of Diyarbakırspor and Amedspor invites us to further
consider the multiplicity of identities in Diyarbakır. The sphere of football
in the city encapsulates an interesting opportunity to re-evaluate the
presence of a sizeable community in the city, seeing football as a platform
through which Kurdish identities can be expressed and a context through
which support from the central government can be received. With the rise of
Amedspor, this official support no longer exists. With kayyums appointed to
replace the mayor, we now spectate an official intervention in reverse, this
time swallowing the activity of the football club.
The two styles of engagement in entangling football and the Kurdish
identity, analysed in this chapter, are not limited to Diyarbakırspor and
Amedspor. These two styles are observable in several other football clubs in
the Kurdish cities of Turkey. For instance, Batman Petrolspor, which plays
in the third league, is a good example that is similar to Diyarbakırspor’s
style. The owner of the club until recently was Turkish Petroleum
Corporation (TPAO), Turkey’s national oil company, and the club always
followed a non-political path. In some cases, we even observe both styles
within the same club. Cizrespor is a remarkable example of combining
these two styles in the 2019–2020 season. In February 2020, the club issued
the following press release.
Due to the injustices we have faced in our own stadium as well as at
away games, due to the racist and nationalist behaviour of referees, our
club president Maruf Sefinç has decided to pull Cizrespor out of the
league.
(Topal, 2020)
This was a moment that typified of the second style, the Amedspor style.
The president of Amedspor, Metin Kılavuz wholeheartedly supported
Cizrespor’s decision to quit the league and wrote – in Kurdish – ‘Her bijî
Cizrespor’ (Long live Cizrespor). He added that Cizrespor is indeed


1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Amedspor to highlight the commonalities of the discrimination both teams
suffer. One week later, Cizrespor stepped back from the decision to quit the
league. Local officials, including the commander of the Cizre gendarmery
unit, organised a meeting with the club’s board to persuade them to return,
and the Şırnak governor promised that he would support Cizrespor,
whenever there was a need. Following these meetings, Cizrespor declared
that their sportive competition will resume. This decision can be interpreted
as the prevalence of the first style of entangling football with Kurdish
identity and politics. It is plausible to think that in the rising
authoritarianism and democratic backsliding in Turkey, the first style will
continue to dominate the football sphere in Kurdish cities.
Notes
I thank Pınar Dinç for her insightful comments and suggestions on earlier drafts of this chapter.
I borrow the concept of lifeworld from Habermas. For Habermas, Lebenswelt or lifeworld is the
general or common horizon, where subjects act communicatively and always come to a common
understanding. The lifeworld is formed by background convictions. In his own words, ‘this
lifeworld background serves as a source of situation definitions that are presupposed by
participants as unproblematic’ (Habermas, 1984, p. 70). Moreover, he notes that the lifeworld
also stores the interpretative work of the preceding generations.
The name of the highest professional football league in Turkey was the First League until the
2001–2002 season, when it became the Süper Lig (Super League).
Singing this march sometimes became the subject of trials with accusations of propaganda for
terrorist organisations. The words of the march begin as follows: ‘Come, beautiful Kurdish
brothers/Let us go to the paradise homeland, brave ones/If you do not come, us girls will
walk/Slavery has sufficed, let victory reign’. Supporters later wrote Turkish and apolitical lyrics
for this march. ‘The cure for my green, red affliction/The meaning of my green, red life/Could it
be, here, the Istanbul sultanate/We are from Diyarbakır, lovestruck until death!’
Here, he refers to the Gallipoli campaign of the First World War, a defensive war of the Ottoman
Army against the Entente powers. The Gallipoli campaign is considered an Ottoman victory,
with 57,263 Ottoman soldiers killed, and many other casualties.
Mehmet is the Turkish equivalent of Mohamed, and ‘Mehmetçik’, which means literally ‘little
Mehmet’, is a generic term denoting ‘Turkish soldier’, with a visible Islamic connotation.
The objective was for DİSKİ (Diyarbakır Su ve Kanalizasyon İdaresi, Diyarbakır Water and
Sewage Administration), which was affiliated with the Diyarbakır Municipality, to support the
club financially.
This name change sparked discomfort at the Turkish Football Federation. A monetary fine was
issued, because the club had made the name change without notice. The existence of an amateur
club with the same name was later noted. The amateur club subsequently changed its name. The
municipality’s club persevered with the official name ‘Amed Sportif Faaliyetler’ and with the
name Amedspor on the club’s social media accounts.
Meanwhile, with a decision made by the AKP government, a state institution for the first time in
2009 broadcast television in Kurdish on TRT. The television channel, which began broadcasting
with the name TRT Şeş, later adopted the name TRT Kürdî. This channel began broadcasting


10
11
12
13
14
15
live the matches of lower-league teams in Kurdish provinces with commentary by presenters
speaking in Kurdish. This practice continues today.
Original: ‘Çocuklar ölmesin, maça da gelsin’.
Later, Ayşe Çelik entered prison with a new-born infant because of these words. The nation’s
most famous talk show was taken off the air starting on that date.
This gesture is quite common in Turkish football. Most recently UEFA reprimanded the Turkish
Football Federation for national team players’ military salutes during two Euro 2020 qualifier
matches.
Former name of an eastern province in Turkey, which had been changed in 1935 to Tunceli.
When we consider the words of this song, we are confronted with a tale of transformation. The
central political tone was preserved with this transformation but became more dignified with the
alteration of one word. The lyrics of the original version by Grup Roj are as follows: ‘Resist,
yeah, Diyarbakır, resist. To resist is what gives you life/stop and listen, my song is to you, trust
in the love of the mountains’. The mountains are a direct reference to PKK members in the
mountains and their armed conflict. On the terraces this song transformed into ‘trust in the love
of the mountains/trust in the love of the supporters’.
The statement by Sakaryaspor managers that ‘We show this video before each match’ warrants
mention to demonstrate the dimension of nationalism in Turkish football.
References
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Aslan, F. (2009) ‘Biz Diyarbakır’ın ve Kürt milletinin takımıyız’, Hürriyet, 9 May.
Bairner, A. (2001) Sport, Nationalism, and Globalization: European and North American
Perspectives, Albany, NY, State University of New York Press.
Bora, T. (2005) ‘Athletic de Diyarbakır’, Radikal, 6 March.
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Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener.
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Tauris.
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251–260.
Evrensel 
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“Çocuklar 
ölmesin 
maça 
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pankartına 
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Evrensel, 3 February.
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Yeğen, M. et al. (2016) Kürtler Ne İstiyor? Kürdistan’da Etnik Kimlik, Dindarlık, Sınıf ve Seçimler,
Istanbul: İletişim.


Chapter 10
Narratives of nationalist politics and
sport in Sindh
Sahar Gul and Alan Bairner
Introduction
According to Sudheep (2016, p. 31), ethnic and sectarian conflicts were
“the common phenomena in Pakistan’s politics during the last decades of
the twentieth century.” Just as common in the country’s landscape is the
sport of cricket. In fact, cricket became a popular sport throughout most of
the Indian sub-continent during the era of British colonial rule and remained
popular following the partition of India and Pakistan and the subsequent
secession of Bangladesh from the latter. Sindh, today a province of
Pakistan, was no exception. The Sindh Cricket Association was established
in 1922, prior to which cricket had been played in the province by Hindu,
Muslim, British and, in particular, Parsi (Zoroastrian) enthusiasts. In 1926,
England’s Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC) team visited Sindh and played
against Karachi’s Muslim, Hindu and Parsi teams. However, it was not until
December 1932, that the Sindh cricket team played its first first-class game
when they drew with Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) in Karachi.
As will shortly become apparent, Sindh has made a significant
contribution to the development of cricket in Pakistan. However, as the
chapter will then go on to demonstrate, discrimination based on
ethnocentric biases and favouritism has been a major factor in the selection
processes in cricket which have excluded Sindhi youth from national teams.


Urdu-speaking migrants and Punjabis have come to dominate the Pakistan
Cricket Board (PCB) and control the selection process (as they do despite
the fact in the bureaucratic and political institutions of the country). This is
one feature of the background against which Sindhi politics must be
understood. It was also in 1932 that the first All India test team to play
England was announced and it included a number of Sindhi players
including Ghulam Muhammad Roonjho, Muhammad Jafar Abdullah,
Budhaji Shanker and Naoomal Jeoomal Makhija. In 1934, the Ranji Trophy,
for which the Sindh team participated for thirteen years, was initiated and
named in honour of Jam Ranji Jarejo, a pioneer of cricket in Sindh and ruler
of Kachh who had also played for the England cricket team. He played in
his first test match against Australia in 1896, scoring centuries in both
innings.
In 1935, the Australian team played against the Sindh team in Karachi.
In 1944, Reg Simpson, who would go on to represent his native England
from 1948 until 1955, played for Sindh while serving in the Royal Air
Force. From 1916 to 1947, in addition to Roonjho, Makhija and Abdullah, a
number of other players were introduced to the Sindh team, included
Muhammad Ibrahim (brother of Roonjho), Gulab Rai Sapihimani
Ramchand, the outstanding batsman Gogumal Kishanchand Harisinghani,
Minocher Jamshedji Mobed, and B. D. (Budhaji) Shankar.
Shankar was another major twentieth-century influence on cricket in
Sindh. He first played in 1922 and later co-authored a book with C. B.
Rubie, a pioneer of the Sindh Cricket Association and an English army
officer who made a significant contribution to the development of the sport
in the Karachi area. Having played for the Sindh cricket team in 1945,
Karachi-born Gulab Rai Sapihimani Ramchand migrated to India following
Partition and played for the Indian test team against Pakistan in 1955.
G. M. Roonjho, Sindh’s legendary fast bowler, toured England with the
first Indian team in 1932, played for Sindh against Ceylon in the same year,
and against Australia in 1935. In 1935, he was captain in the historic match
between Sindh and Australia. Muhammad Jafar Abdullah was an important
player in the Indus Valley Cricket team who played in the Sindh Pentagular
Cricket Tournament (SPT) as a Muslim team member. He made two double
centuries against Hyderabad Deccan team in 1932.
In 1932, Naoomal Jeoomal Makhija, who progressed to coach the
Pakistan team in 1960, had opened the batting for India in the country’s first


test match against England and was a member of the Sindh team from 1924
to 1940. He made a century against Sri Lanka, and was chosen as man of
the tournament in the Ranji Trophy of 1938 for making a double century. In
domestic cricket, Sindh played in the Quaid-e-Azam Trophy from 1953 to
1957 and then played only occasional first-class games until the 1970s
when two teams representing the province again competed in the Quaid-e-
Azam Trophy.
In light of this long history of cricket in Sindh, it is perhaps surprising
that in 2013 in the Sindh Assembly in Karachi, Provincial Law Minister
Ayaz Soomro agreed with Pakistan Muslim League-Functional (PMLF)
legislator, Nusrat Sehar Abbasi, that “Sindh was under-represented in the
national team and assured the house that the matter would be taken up with
the PCB.” Despite that assurance, three years later blogger Sahir Palijo
(2016) still felt it necessary to pose the question, “Why aren’t there any
Sindhi and Baloch players in our PSL [Pakistan Super League] squads?” In
fact, for supporters of Sindh independence, the answer was relatively
straightforward inasmuch as the selection of PSL squads was simply a
reflection of the discrimination that Sindh province and Balochistan have
faced almost from the very formation of Pakistan.
Palijo noted that of the fifteen-man squad that would represent
Balochistan’s Quetta Gladiators in the PSL in 2016, only one was Baloch
and, although Sindh’s Karachi Kings would include players born in the city,
none of them was actually a Sindhi speaker. The writer went on to point out
that “even when you consider Pakistan’s national team you won’t find any
Sindhi or Baloch player in the squad. It has been decades since a Baloch or
Sindhi donned the national team’s jersey” (Palijo, S., 2016). For this
situation, specifically in relation to the case of Sindh, Palijo blamed both
the PCB and the Sindh government for not giving young cricketers
opportunities to develop their skills. For those with little or no interest in
cricket, this issue might seem to be of little consequence. It is a reflection,
however, of broader and arguably much more serious concerns about the
status of Sindh within Pakistan, for, as Bandyopadhyay (2007, p. 102)
notes, “cricket’s pre-eminence in Pakistani life has also led to its
construction and interpretation in terms of political transition, social
tension, economic transformation, diplomatic relations and cultural
development.” Before returning to cricket, therefore, let us first explain the


political and cultural background against which the issues raised by Palijo
can best be understood.
Identity, language and politics in Sindh
The cradle of Indus civilisation, Sindh has been an independent and
sovereign homeland for a series of brief and longer intervals since recorded
history began, despite continuous invasions, attacks and occupations. The
unique behavioural feature of Sindh’s inhabitants is that, although they have
been defeated many times due to various strategic reasons, they have never
surrendered to invaders throughout Sindh’s history. From the sixteenth to
the early eighteenth century, Arghoons and Turkhans repeatedly tried to
divide Sindh for administrative convenience and political interests but
Sindh has always succeeded in reclaiming its geographical integrity and
central political authority during a period of 5000 years of history (Gul,
2017). In recorded history, Sindh remained an independent and sovereign
state during several dynasties and, despite interruptions, has been a
sovereign country since the Moen jo Daro era which ended up with the
invasion of the Aryans between 1500 and 3000 BCE.
Although Talibanisation has often been regarded as the main threat to the
Pakistani state, most ethnic groups in the country, including the Sindhis,
believe themselves to be discriminated against by a Punjabi elite. According
to Sudheep (2016, p. 34), “soon after the formation of Pakistan, the Muslim
elites from West Pakistan, particularly the Mohajirs tried to implement
Urdu as the national language,” despite the fact that it was the language
only of the migrants who comprised 2 per cent of the population of the new
country.
As Das (2001, p. 105) argues,
decolonization of South Asia resulted in the creation of two successor
states along religious lines: a secular India, comprising the heartland of
the sub-continent, and a Muslim-majority Pakistan consisting of two
wings, the western part of which was separated from the eastern half by
almost 1,500 km of Indian territory.
Sindh was the third most populous region of Pakistan at the time of
Partition, bordering the Indian states of Rajasthan and Gujarat. A backward


landlord-dominated rural economy coexisted with Karachi, Pakistan’s most
thriving commercial city. Sindh also possesses a distinct Sindhi identity.
Indeed, as Das (2001, p. 104) informs us, “although the Union Jack was
planted in Sindh in 1843, the British recognised the region’s advanced
nationality development.”
Following Partition, Mohajirs, influential and often well-educated Indian
Muslims, migrated to Sindh (Azhar and Muhammad, 2017; Sudheep, 2016).
Today its main cities, Karachi, Hyderabad and Sukkur, are dominated by
Mohajirs while the fertile lands of northern Sindh are controlled by
Punjabis. Sindh’s population grew by more than 81 per cent between 1998
and 2011 as a result of further large-scale immigration. Sindhis now make
up only 45 per cent of the province’s population.
Yet, Sindhi is one of the oldest languages of the sub-continent.
Furthermore, as Rahman (1999, p. 26) notes, “in independent Pakistan the
only provinces in which the indigenous languages were the media of
instruction in the non-elitist state schools were Bengal and Sind.” As a
result, “the resistance against perceived domination by the centre came to
be expressed primarily through linguistic and cultural symbols” (Rahman,
1999, p. 26). Language became a marker of Sindhi ethnic identity as well as
having “utilitarian value as the language of the lower salariat” (Rahman,
1999, p. 32). In addition, according to Kennedy (1991, p. 939), “Sindh is
the most ethnically diverse of Pakistan’s four provinces, due both to the
international transfer of peoples into the province during, and subsequent to
partition in 1947, and to domestic internal migration since 1947.”
Although much has been written about the national narratives of Sindh,
there exists an important need for further critical appraisal from a
multiplicity of dimensions. Specifically, there is a necessity both to write
about trends and traditions but also to analyse the nationalist movements in
the light of the principles of the world’s nationalist politics. In fact, Sindhi
nationalist politics can best be understood in relation to modern theories of
nationalism and grounded realities. In order to make foreign scholars in the
field of nationalism studies understand Sindh’s case, it is necessary to
explicate it firstly from the perspective of historical realities, and secondly
from that of international theories and experiences.
This should not mean that residents of Sindh who speak languages other
than Sindhi should be declared as aliens, which would erroneously present


Sindhis as xenophobes and Sindh as a nation suffering from national
narcissism.
[W]e must not forget that in history the term nationalism has been used
as an alternate to narcissistic racism that the world witnessed and
experienced in the form of Nazism and Fascism. Such type of
nationalism is called Expansionist Nationalism, which is the most
aggressive form of asserting self-identity. Therefore, there is difference
between the nationalism of oppressed and oppressing nations – without
understanding 
this 
difference, 
one 
cannot 
understand 
the
diversifications and fragilities of the subject.
(Gul, 2017)
Rather, previous research has drawn attention to the desire for a
multinational population and a multiracial identity becoming a national
success on the condition that the rights of all linguistic groups residing in
Sindh are protected so that Sindh can become a multinational and peaceful
province (Gul, 2017).
It is important to understand Sindh in terms of the rights of the Sindhi
population without making distinctions on the basis of race, religion or any
other identity. In that way, it is possible to better understand the character of
Sindhi nationalism.
This chapter draws upon the first major study of modern citizenship in
relation to Sindh, based on the concepts of national and multiracial
nationalist sociology (Gul, 2017). This approach seeks not only to present
the idea of a tolerant, multi-class Sindh but also to stimulate exploration of
the different possibilities of its reformation. Furthermore, it is expected that
this aspiration offers a rational point of view for multiracial groups and
different political parties. The narratives of Sindhi nationalism can roughly
be divided into three eras: 1906–1936 (the struggle for the separation of
Sindh from Bombay); 1937–1947 (before Partition); 1947-to-date (the
arguments about national existence, the share of water resources and the
claim of a permanent majority).
The political evolution of Sindhi nationalism


Sindhi ethnic nationalism developed as a response to the treatment of its
people (Khan, 2002). Gul (2017) has outlined how Sindh has been
subjected to innumerable attacks by foreigners, and the people of Sindh
have resisted these at different times and in different ways. These attacks
commenced with the Aryans who came from central Asia and were
followed by Arabs, Arghoons and Turkhans. In more recent history,
external oppression began with the conquest of Sindh by the British in 1843
followed by forcible attachment to the Bombay Presidency in 1847.
Secessionist tendencies were triggered in Sindh after the secession of
East Pakistan in 1971. East Bengal and Sindh had been the only provinces
which vigorously struggled for the formation of Pakistan. When the
political mandate of the Awami League in Bengal was denied, East Pakistan
(today’s Bangladesh) was separated and G. M. Syed, a Sindhi politician and
one of the founders of Pakistan, demanded freedom for all the constituent
nationalities of Pakistan under his political party Jeay Sindh Mahaz (Long
live Sindh Front). Influenced by the ideology of G. M. Syed, many
secessionist groups tried to claim political spaces and influence people,
especially the youth, with universities becoming an important hub of
involvement in nationalist politics. That was the time when Sindhis
strengthened their perceptiveness about language, nationalism, culture and
sovereignty on a larger scale (Azizudin cited in Chandio, 2009).
Simultaneously, because of strong separatist tendencies, the state and
government of Pakistan adopted discriminatory policies towards Sindhis
when it came to creating leisure spaces for people, especially the young,
hence sports were also impacted. Because of huge mistrust, the government
tried to deny active participation of Sindhi youth in mainstream sports such
as cricket, football and hockey. In addition, because of the influence of the
nationalist movement, a section of Sindhi youth kept themselves away from
such mainstream activities.
For G. M. Syed, as one of the founders of Pakistan, the negation of the
resolution of 1940 was taking place before his eyes, and the Punjabi and
Mohajirs/migrants ruling class had rendered the Bengalis, Balochs,
Pashtuns and Sindhis as their slaves from political and economic
perspectives as a result of which had surfaced the logical conclusion to
divide Pakistan and give independence to Bangladesh.
As a result, Syed came to the conclusion that staying with Pakistan
would now strike a severe blow on behalf of the remaining subjugated


‘nations’ as expressed in his writings which not only demanded the
geographical independence of Sindh from Pakistan but laid the foundations
of his political thought. Although, initially, Syed sought only autonomous
status for Sindh, over time he began to focus more on the need for liberation
in the form of an independent state (Khan and Mushtaq, 2017).
Syed argued that the residents of Sindh constituted a separate nation on
the basis of language, culture, historical customs and traditions and were
entitled to make decisions about their political, economic and cultural
future. Sindh had been a separate country in the sub-continent for thousands
of years and, like other nations of the world, had a right to self-
determination. The Sindhi language was fully entitled to become the
national and official language of the country.
Alongside Syed, another political leader of that period who played an
important role in the political and national wisdom of Sindhism was Hyder
Bakhsh Jatoi, who resigned from his post of deputy collector in the
government service to create the Sindh Hari Committee (Sindh Peasants’
Movement). Jatoi proposed the idea of the parallel movement of national
and sectional issues (Jatoi, 1980).
A third prominent figure was Rasool Bux Palijo, who headed Awami
Tahrik (People’s Movement) – the progressive movement, more inclined to
Maoist–Leninist ideological orientations. As a scholar of Sindh, Palijo’s
wisdom and organisational abilities provided new theoretical and practical
dimensions to Sindh’s nationalist politics. In his opinion, the fight against
feudalism was an essential part of the national movement. Feudalism was
the root of the Mohajirs’/migrants’ and Punjabi domination. Feudalism did
not permit Sindhis to confront their problems. In fact, weakness in the face
of feudalism amongst the majority of Sindhis was like a disease. Nationalist
and anti-feudalism movements should go hand in hand. The urban Sindhi
would not be able to save their cities until they confronted feudalism as
their enemy. The Sindhi nation should first of all solve its permanent
problems such as poverty, looting by cruel landlords, the harbouring of
thieves, and dogmatism in rural areas. Palijo was of the view that the
national movement would not succeed without rooting out feudalism. In
addition, it should address all the problems faced by the rural population
and it should be based on the needs and support of the people (Palijo, R. B.,
1973).


1
2
3
4
5
6
The Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) was future president and prime
minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s party, which was later ‘inherited’ by his
daughter, Benazir, and then passed on to her son and husband, following her
assassination in 2007. In the 1960s and 1970s, the PPP’s rhetoric was
socialist, Bhutto used the word socialism to attract support from the former
Soviet Union and the concept of Islamic socialism to pacify Muslim
clerics/Mullahs. Even after the rhetoric had subsided, however, the PPP
continued to identify as a centre-left party, much of whose support base was
in the rural areas of Sindh (Gazdar, 2008). Indeed, initially, an important
project for the party was the elimination of feudalism although this was
subsequently set aside.
Sindh nationalist politics and thinking has evolved over time, grown and
assumed different forms during the last one and a half centuries.
Nevertheless, some common points can be found among the various
political traditions. The provincial autonomy of Sindh has been the central
argument of Sindhi nationalists (Chandio, 2007). The basis of this demand
is composed of several core beliefs:
Sindh is the eternal, permanent, everlasting motherland of Sindhis and
historical right over Sindh belongs to Sindhis alone.
A permanent majority of Sindhis in Sindh should be protected so that
the historical right of Sindhis to rule Sindh can be secured.
The Sindhi language is the national language of Sindh and the Sindhis
and should be given the official status of the national language of
Sindh.
The cities and all natural and economic resources of Sindh including
capital, oil, gas and coal are the national properties of Sindh and the
Sindhis, and the historical right of Sindhis over these should be
accepted.
Individuals and groups residing in Sindh and speaking other languages
are also Sindhis who believe in Sindh as their motherland and consider
themselves, in a political sense, part of the Sindhi nation and are
willing to strive for the national rights of Sindh.
Jageerdari (feudalism) is the main reason for the abject backwardness
and subjection of Sindhis and the relief of Sindh is impossible without
the rule of Sindhi people over Sindh.


7
The Indus river is the creator and guarantor of the history, culture and
economy, and any sort of dacoity/robbery involving the shape of its
embankment, canal and barrage system will be regarded as an attack
on the nationhood of Sindh.
In pursuing its goals, the Sindhi nationalist struggle has been hampered by
the diverse range of groups that are involved, even though most of them
have been affiliated to the ideology of G. M. Syed. Bhutto’s execution in
1979 and widespread alienation led to growing support in Sindh for the
newly established Movement for Restoration of Democracy (MRD)
amongst all sections of society in the province (Khan and Mushtaq, 2017).
However, as reported by Adeel Khan (2002), despite their common anti-
Punjabi-Mohajir rhetoric, the various opposition groups were unable to
reconcile their clash of interests
In recent years, a lack of unity amongst Sindhi nationalists and the
absence of a unifying political organisation have hampered efforts to force
the Pakistan state to accommodate their demands (Bansal, 2016). Instead,
there have emerged numerous nationalist groups. However, despite most of
them being associated with the ideology of G. M. Syed, they have tended to
be disconnected and have failed to function as a single unit (The News,
2007). This, then, is the background against which we shall seek to explain
the current relationship between sport and Sindhi identity politics.
There are two streams of Sindhi nationalists, that is those who believe in
the separation of Sindh from the federation of Pakistan and commonly
believe in G. M. Syed’s political thought and a second stream comprising
those moderates and progressive leftist organisations that believe in gaining
constitutional, political, economic and cultural rights for Sindh within a
federal constitutional framework. There have been alliances among diverse
nationalists and progressive organisations occasionally but such alliances
had never been sustained due to competing and conflicting narratives as
well as group interests; consequently they have not been able to exert
sustained political pressure on state institutions and political and civilian
governments.
Despite lack of unity and ideological differences, all nationalist and
progressive groups have also endeavoured to speak with one voice on many
common issues, that is Sindh legitimate water share, language rights,
ownership of and adequate income from natural resources, provincial


autonomy, securing Sindh’s demographic majoritarian status in the
province, and self-government for the province.
In such circumstances, the fate of Sindhi cricket players is now changing
due to various factors despite persistent obstacles at the structural levels.
Influential local people have taken personal measures to create cricket
grounds and arrange training opportunities for the Sindhi youth. Moreover,
Sindhi women have begun to play cricket thanks to local efforts at the
district level, in the absence of support from the PCB. These district-level
initiatives and efforts have allowed Sindhi players to reach the national and
international levels. Yet there are still challenges for cricket enthusiasts to
surmount with structural reforms.
Sport and Sindhi identity
Malakhro (Malh) is an ancient Sindhi form of wrestling, which dates back
5000 years. It is one of the most popular sports among men in Gujarat in
India and in Sindh province. Indeed, it is the provincial sport of Sindh.
Matches are generally held on Fridays and holidays and are a feature of
fairs and festivals. People with money and influence manage and organise
contests for famous wrestlers. In 2009, the provincial government made the
decision to build a new stadium in Karachi for the sport, not least to revive
support for what had been an increasingly dying tradition. This commitment
contrasts markedly with Sahir Palijo’s (2016) description of cricket
academies and stadiums in inner Sindh remaining “underfunded or not
functional at all.” Moreover, there is a lack of grounds outside Karachi
where academies can be formed for training and playing matches.
Other amenity measures are those that indicate that support for winter
recreational activities is positively related to growth rate in the population,
employment, income and yield performance. Demand for winter
recreational activities and sports such as football, kabaddi and malakhro are
expected to continue to increase in the rural areas of Sindh, not least
because all statistically significant amenity attributes are positively related
to economic growth in rural Sindh (Shaikh and Rahpoto, 2009). However,
by far the most popular sport in Pakistan is cricket.
As we have seen, although Lahore, the capital of Punjab, played a
significant part in Pakistan’s earliest encounters with cricket, by the 1920s,
Sindh was regarded by some as the first place in pre-Partition India where


the sport was properly organised (Samiuddin, 2014). However, following
Partition and the waves of immigrants who arrived in the province’s largest
city and Pakistan’s first capital, Karachi, there were simply too many people
and not enough space. As Samiuddin (2014, pp. 38–39) reports, “as
opposed to the vast, open and green spaces of Lahore, there were fewer
spaces and grounds in Karachi … There were no turf wickets and
sometimes, as in some of the parks, there weren’t wickets of any kind at
all.” Nevertheless, the local Parsi community in particular had promoted the
sport, as it had in other parts of the sub-continent (Guha, 2002), as did some
of the best schools in the city, which themselves reflected the diverse
character of the city’s and the province’s population. These schools
competed for the Rubie Shield, named after the Englishman who had done
so much for the development of cricket in Sindh before Partition
(Samiuddin, 2014).
After Partition, India and Pakistan established their own separate
national cricket teams. Although the relationship between the two countries
has frequently been tense, according to Aslam et al. (2016, p. 63), “the
game of cricket confirmed to be a vital connection among the public of both
nations [who] usually tried to get together on the cricket ground or pitches
even in the most hostile days.” As noted in the introduction, however, in the
case of Pakistan, the national team has not always been representative of the
population as a whole, with Sindhi and Baloch players finding it difficult to
gain selection for the national team or, more recently, for PSL squads, even
those representing their own provinces.
One national politician (ethnically Sindhi) who had supported Sindh was
Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. Born near Larkana in the province, Bhutto was the
fourth president of Pakistan from 1971 to 1973 and the country’s ninth
prime minister from 1973 until 1977. In addition to leading the PPP,
pursuing his socialist agenda and allowing Sindhi to become the national
language of Sindh province (Azhar and Muhammad, 2017), he was also a
cricket devotee. Indeed, according to one of the towering figures in the
history of cricket on the sub-continent, A. H. Kardar,
had Bhutto gone straight to Oxford instead of spending three years at
Berkeley in the United States, he would have played first-class cricket
not only in England but also later in Pakistan. But those three years in
California were to turn him into a political person.


(1987, p. 283)
In his pursuit of allies and financial support, Bhutto developed a close
relationship with Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, which led to the renaming of
the Lahore cricket stadium after the Libyan leader. Inspired by the ‘ping
pong diplomacy’ that was heralded as having brought the United States and
China closer together, Bhutto also established the Z. A. Bhutto Institute of
Sports and Culture in order to develop the rapport between himself and the
people and to signify his understanding of the cultural and political value of
sport (Oborne, 2014). Perhaps with this at least partly in mind, he persuaded
Kardar to join the PPP, which also numbered amongst its members student
agitator Aftab Gul, who “made his Test debut for Pakistan in 1969 – while
out on bail from criminal charges” (Heller and Oborne, 2016, p. 129).
Although later Gul became disillusioned with what he regarded as Bhutto’s
political opportunism, he nevertheless later joined his former leader’s legal
team and took down some of Bhutto’s political testament dictated while in
his death cell. Gul remained loyal to Bhutto’s initial political dream of a
democratic, socialist Pakistan which, while predominantly Muslim, would
tolerate all creeds and encourage free thinking. It is a dream that has also
inspired many Sindhi nationalists. According to Heller and Oborne (2016,
p. 135), “More than any other Pakistan cricketer, Aftab Gul answers C. L.
R. James’s famous question: what do they know of cricket who only cricket
know?”
So why are there so few Sindhi cricketers in the Pakistan
national team?
Overt discrimination and the importance of political influence rather than
merit have been major factors in the process whereby Sindhi youth have
been excluded from national teams in cricket and other sports. One of the
authors was told that a Baloch player scored 428 runs in an innings but
played in only two test matches, and a Jamali (Sindhi/Baloch) player scored
95 against Australia on his test debut in 1965 but was also allowed to play
only two test matches while Urdu-speaking migrants and Punjabis
continued to dominate the PCB and control the selection process.
Another factor is that, in the PCB, there has been little evidence of
independent and honest chairmen, captains or coaches willing or able to


ensure a transparent recruitment process. This is a major reason why many
selections have not been made on merit. One of the authors was told that
when the renowned player Wasim Akram became captain of the national
team, he introduced some changes by bringing in cricketers from different
ethnic groups; they included Shahid Afridi, Azhar Mahmood, Abdul Razaq,
Shoaib Malik, Saqlain Mushtaq, Mohammad Yousuf and Younis Khan.
After Wasim Akram stepped down, however, things reverted to the norm.
In addition to corruption, discrimination, favouritism and nepotism, there
has been a lack of infrastructure in the smaller districts and a lack of
academies and playground facilities in Sindh, other than in Karachi. Indeed,
in the other cities of Sindh, only tennis cricket is played so that when
players are faced with a hard ball, they fail to perform well. Learning to
play with a hard ball requires space and training facilities, which the smaller
districts lack. Hence, they play tennis cricket for fun, not as a potential
profession, and have no future prospects in the sport. More generally there
has been a lack of cricket grounds. One of the authors was told that, in
addition to Karachi, there needed two more big grounds in the other
districts of Sindh where academies could be formed for training and also for
playing matches.
The migration of Sindhi cricketers to India has also been a factor.
Moreover, between 1847 and 1947 cricket was played only in Karachi, with
teams including both Sindhi Hindu and Muslim cricketers, at which point,
Sindhi Hindu cricketers migrated to India taking with them their best
performance records, and the Karachi grounds, especially the Karachi
Gymkhana ground, which was built in 1890, came to be controlled by the
new immigrants to the province with Punjabis being more influential in
decision-making than Urdu-speaking migrants.
Nepotism is another familiar problem. One of the authors was informed
that, when a selector in Larkana, a district of Sindh, was asked by the PCB
to provide the names of his two best players, he sent his nephews. It is also
well-known that Karachi-based players receive proper training for which
they pay and then get selected. Elsewhere in Sindh, children do not have the
opportunity to play cricket from childhood for the simple reason that
schools do not have proper playgrounds, let alone cricket grounds.
Despite all of these obstacles, we were informed by one of the district
representatives of the PCB that currently there are signs of positive change
with four cricketers from Sindh who belong to the Hyderabad and Dadu


districts having been selected for PSL teams in 2020. They are Sharjeel
Khan (Urdu-speaking from Hyderabad) for Karachi Kings, bowlers Zahid
Mehmood and Mohammad Hasnain for Quetta Gladiators and Amir Ali
Thaheem, another bowler, for Peshawar Zalmi. This might go some way at
least to responding positively to Sahir Palijo’s (2016) comments discussed
earlier in this chapter. What should not be ignored is that Sindhis are
perfectly happy to represent Pakistan at the international level. Furthermore,
there are undoubtedly signs of change.
An improving situation?
In recent years, a number of cricket enthusiasts have contributed greatly to
the advancement of young boys from the districts of Sindh other than
Karachi. One of those is Mir Hyder Talpur (President of the Regional
Cricket Association, which is part of the PCB) who belongs to an influential
political family in Hyderabad and was responsible for the creation of cricket
grounds in Hyderabad and Badin to train young boys to play cricket.
Muhammad Suleman Mirani, by profession a Treasury Officer in the
Finance Department) and himself a former cricket player, has encouraged
and financed Sindhi boys in Larkana to play cricket. He formed Al-Shahbaz
Cricket Club in Larkana, of which he is patron and president. Shahnawaz
Dahani, who has played first-class cricket, was trained in that club. Pir
Moazam (an artist from a very influential Sindh political family),
contributed to the making of the Dadu ground and also finances young
Sindhi cricketers. Since 2007, Pervaiz Ahmed Chandio from Dadu, also a
former player, has pledged to prepare district- and village-level boys for
national and international cricket.
Amongst the Dadu boys whom Chandio has mentored, Zahid Mahmood
Bhatti and Amir Ali Thaheem played for, but were then dropped by PSL
teams Quetta Gladiators and Peshawar Zalmi respectively. Later, however,
Amir Ali Thaheem was selected to play for the national team in the 2020
Under 19 World Cup in South Africa. It is also to Chandio’s credit that, in
2010, he organised a women’s match between Dadu and Sukkur, the first
such match to be organised by the district and not by the PCB. Dadu now
has good cricket grounds. In Sanghar and Shikarpur and Larkana there are
two grounds and Jacobabad and Khairpur Mirs a ground each. Despite these


success stories, however, discrimination and political interference can still
hinder the progress of Sindhi cricket.
Zahid Mahmood had led the national T20 bowling statistics but was left
out of the national team in favour of the son of a Pakistan cricket legend,
Abdul Qadir, a friend of Prime Minster Imran Khan, a former test captain.
Indeed, the former Chairman of the PCB Junior Selection Committee Basit
Ali had vowed that no Sindhi player would be selected. He marginalised
Sindhi player Javed Khoso, who did not have passport and was left behind
for that reason, though the passport could have been urgently arranged to
keep the brilliant player in the team – here ethnocentrisms marginalised the
boy. Following Agha Javed and Shahid Qambrani, who had both
represented Pakistan at the under-19 level, Nadir Ali and Amir Ali, both
from Dadu and both left-arm spinners, played in the regional under-19
trophy and were in fifth and sixth places for their bowling figures.
However, they were not selected for the twenty-strong national squad, and
when asked why not, we were told that they were ordinary players. Ali
Asghar Joyo, a left arm spinner, was completely ignored and we were told
that the current Chairman of the Junior Selection Committee, Salim Jafar
Aga Khan, gives places on merit.
In fact, Sindhi youth players faced double jeopardy due to a Karachi and
Lahore mind set that has given priority to Urdu- and Punjabi-speaking boys.
In addition, Prime Minister Imran Khan has introduced changes which will
affect the overall future of the sport. For example, he has appointed close
friends to the PCB’s decision-making governing board on which no proper
representation of regions is possible as he has already abolished sixteen
regions, leaving only six teams.
Teams linked to banks and other institutions such the State Bank of
Pakistan, Pakistan International Airlines, the AQ Khan Laboratory etc.
made up twenty-eight teams; all were abolished, with several players and
relevant personnel losing their jobs and livelihood. Imran Khan also
removed ground staff who lost their income. District administrators lack the
funds and interest to take care of the grounds. The Prime Minister appointed
Misbah ul Haq Niazi (a relative from his own hometown of Mianwali) to be
national chief selector and coach, with a salary that is equivalent to the
former income of all the country’s cricket ground staff. Prime Minister
Khan has introduced a competition resembling that of Australia’s Sheffield
Shield, a model that does not necessarily suit Pakistan, compared with the


county cricket system in England which makes room for its major and
minor counties.
Finally, the reduced number of provincial and departmental cricket teams
reveals more prejudice; three provinces – Sindh, Balochistan, Khyber
Pakhtunkhuwa – have only three teams between them, while Punjab
province has three teams itself. Second, regarding representation of the
provinces, although initially the proposal was floated that each team would
be led by its provincial chief executive who is also the chief minister, and
the selection of players for the provincial team would be a provincial
matter, this proposal was not implemented. Instead, a cricket committee
headed by Iqbal Qasim is responsible for the overall decision-making,
which does not involve the provincial chief executives in the process of
selection of players.
Conclusion
With C. L. R James’s famous question in mind, the reasons for the lack of
Sindhi cricketers in the Pakistan national team cannot be found in cricket
itself. The explanation runs deeper than that and is to be found in the history
and political evolution of the country itself. As a Sindhi commentator (Das,
2001, p. 155) has argued,
Problems of national unity in Pakistan stem from the very philosophy
of the country – as prophesied by those who wield power. The
philosophy and ideology of the state negates the reality, i.e. the
existence of nations that together formed Pakistan. The policies and
practices based on the philosophy and ideology of the creation of
Pakistan have obviously damaged the problems of national unity.
Sindhi nationalist sentiments have remained strong, although, according to
Khan and Mushtaq (2017, p. 35), the separatist movement has not gained
much attraction and over the years Sindhi separatists have lost ground.
Nevertheless, the secessionist movement will continue to acquire recruits
because of their fear for Sindh’s survival (Das, 2001) and a less important
but nonetheless significant desire to see Sindhi sport flourish.


Acknowledgements
The authors are grateful to Mr Asif Ali Jokhio, Clerk of the Thatta
Education Department and a researcher on the history of Sindh and Mr
Pervaiz Ali Chandio who contributed to the training of Sindhi players to
join the PSL in 2020. Both men willingly gave up their time to provide a
wealth of invaluable information.
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Chapter 11
Assembling the diasporic nation
Kabylia at the CONIFA World Football Cup
Jonathan Harris
Introduction
In the summer of 2018, thousands of people in Algeria and the diaspora
tuned in to watch and to listen as their national football team clashed with
other national teams from around the world. A dedicated group of fans
followed the team from venue to venue, waving the national flag and
singing their support from the stands. The president and some of his
officials were present at some of the more significant games. The nation
was represented, national pride was at stake, and the eyes of the world,
through the coverage of the international media, were upon the team.
However, Algeria had not qualified for the FIFA World Cup in Russia. This
was the newly formed Kabyle national team competing in the CONIFA
(Confederation of Independent Football Associations) World Football Cup
in London, on which this chapter focuses. Other teams at the competition
ranged from unrecognised states like Abkhazia and North Cyprus, and
established secessionist groups like Tibet and Tamil Eelam, to geopolitical
anomalies like Ellan Vannin (Isle of Man) and The United Koreans in
Japan.
Though the tournament was on a scale far smaller than the more
established competition taking place in Russia, the participation of this
Kabyle team and the related international media attention on the Kabyle


Independence Movement (Mouvement pour l’Autodétermination de la
Kabylie, MAK), which since 2015 has called for the self-determination of
Kabylia as an indigenous nation, charted new territory in North Africa’s
regional politics. Its immediate effects were felt in the mobilisation of the
Kabyle diaspora and various reactions via online and mainstream media,
but its longer-term effects remain to be seen. The Kabylia that was
presented to the world through online and mainstream media during the
CONIFA tournament was a nation searching for its independence. It was a
territory wrongly attached to Algeria during the French colonial period,
suffering marginalisation and oppression at the hands of the authoritarian
Algerian state. As this chapter will unpack, however, the media coverage of
Kabylia at the CONIFA World Football Cup was based upon the deeply
partisan discourse of the MAK, and presented in such a way as to suggest
that, beyond any question, Kabylia is a nation. Such a claim would have
been unimaginable until only recently, but regional political change
ongoing since the ‘Arab Spring’, including the growth of Kabyle diaspora
institutions, is providing a space for its articulation. This chapter will
analyse the role of this sporting event in the assemblage of diaspora and
argue that an already existent Kabyle discourse and performance of
secessionism has been further developed through CONIFA’s format and
mediatisation.
Diaspora, sport and nationalism
The power of sporting spectacles to symbolically put a place ‘on the map’,
and for athletes’ performances to represent their nations to the rest of the
world, has become an established theme in scholarship on the geopolitics of
sport (Cronin and Mayall 1998, Bairner 2001, Koch 2016). In particular, the
efforts of host nations and cities to portray themselves as developed or
powerful have formed the focus of several recent interventions in the field
(Horák 2017, Koch 2018, Won and Chiu 2018). International sporting
events are excellent examples of Billig’s classic concept of ‘banal
nationalism’ (1995), where the national ‘symbolic repertoire’ of flags,
colours and anthems are deployed as a matter of course (Koch 2013).
Global audiences have grown accustomed to seeing a national flag
displayed alongside names on the leader boards of the Tour de France or the
Grand Prix, for example, despite the transnational make-up of the teams


that compete. At the FIFA World Cup national symbols are constantly
reproduced, from the colours that teams wear, to the songs that fans sing, to
the style of play on the field. CONIFA exposes and makes explicit the
power relations that are reinforced through such practices, by replicating the
same national symbolic repertoire but for many of the world’s stateless
nations and secessionist groups. Such an exposure threatens polities that
have succeeded in normalising their national status over that of these other
groups, prompting resistance to CONIFA’s activities. For example, several
sponsors representing thousands of pounds of funding withdrew from the
2018 tournament when Tibet was included, and the Cypriot High
Commission wrote to the London non-league clubs hosting the matches to
encourage them to withdraw too: “Irrespective of what CONIFA likes to
call itself, it is an association that provides an umbrella network for illegal
secessionist entities purportedly to play football” (Cypriot Embassy to the
UK, cited in Hendicott 2019). The geopolitics of this sporting event were
decidedly international in scale, whilst the city where the tournament took
place, London, was only significant in that it is home to numerous
diasporas. As such, the tournament represents a unique field for the study
not just of sport and secessionism, but more broadly for nationalism and the
geopolitics of diaspora.
Scholarly uses of the term ‘diaspora’ range widely, having several
meanings across and often within disciplines (Brubaker 2005, Faist 2010).
We must therefore ask: what kind of diaspora emerged to support the
Kabyle team at the CONIFA World Cup? The cultural studies approach that
popularised the term in the humanities in the 1990s evoked diaspora as a
metaphor for cultural difference and hybridity that lies outside the dominant
cultural narrative. Whilst helpful for theorising the socio-cultural effects of
living away from ‘home’, this approach is often individualised and
placeless despite evoking spatial themes (Brah 1996). A second approach,
taken by scholars studying diaspora from a political science perspective,
theorises it as the population of a given nation-state residing outside its
borders. It is mostly concerned with state politics, for example, state
‘diaspora outreach’ (Koinova 2010), the projection of power beyond
borders (Gamlen 2008), the governance of expatriate citizens (Dickinson
2017) and the harnessing of diaspora resources for homeland development
(Mullings 2012). As such, this work foregrounds states as the primary
actors in defining and structuring diasporas. However, the Kabyle diaspora


that was made briefly visible during the CONIFA competition constitutes
neither of these kinds of diaspora. It is not a non-essentialised narrative of
individual identity, disconnected from place and materiality, but neither is it
defined and structured by a Kabyle state engaging in ‘diaspora outreach’.
A more suitable approach to diaspora defines it as a process, wherein the
boundaries of nation, state, community and identity are (de)constructed
(Mavroudi 2007). When conceptualised in this way, the making of a Kabyle
diaspora can be analysed as part of a wider geopolitical context constantly
undergoing a process of assemblage (Dittmer 2014, Barrineau 2015,
Dickinson 2017). Existing work on geopolitical assemblages has drawn on
arguments originating in sociology and the study of social movements.
Sökefeld’s work on Sikh, Kashmiri and Tamil diasporas argues for a focus
on “the formation of diaspora [as] an issue of social mobilization [to
counter] primordialist and essentializing approaches” (2006, p. 268), citing
Sidney Tarrow’s description of social movements’ activities beyond
contentious politics: “they build organizations, elaborate ideologies, and
socialize and mobilize constituencies, and their members engage in self-
development and the construction of collective identities” (1998, p. 3),
partly through their ‘framing’. Movements actively ‘frame’ their concerns
in relation to their constantly changing contexts, and diasporas are similar
in this respect. Framing practices define what is relevant or irrelevant to a
given issue, through processes of articulation. Brubaker argues that on this
basis diaspora should be treated “as a category of practice, project, claim
and stance, rather than as a bounded group”. Going further, he explains that
“the ‘groupness’ of putative diasporas, like that of putative ‘nations’, is
precisely what is at stake” (2005, p. 13). Geographers have similarly
highlighted the ambivalent, uncertain interpretations of national identity,
particularly in diasporas (Mavroudi 2007, 2008), but this article will make
use of Brubaker’s term ‘groupness’, which emphasises the collectivity of
identity formation that is key to senses of diaspora and nation. The
mobilisation of diaspora communities reshapes imaginative geographies of
the nation ‘at home’, particularly in the absence of an established ‘home’
nation-state (Anderson 1992). As Mulligan has put it: “Although it is
commonly assumed that national identity grows organically within the
territory of the nation or state, I contend that it might also emerge from the
margins – forged by diasporas” (2002, p. 221).


This chapter draws on two years of fieldwork with Kabyle diaspora
activists, and interviews with players, fans and politicians during CONIFA
2018, to produce an account of the changing geopolitics of the Kabyle
diaspora. It unpacks the diaspora-scripted imaginative geographies of
nationhood, and the work that they do, by approaching the diaspora as
‘process’ (Mavroudi 2007, Barrineau 2015). As such, the discourses and
practices of Kabyle participants in the CONIFA World Cup 2018 are
analysed as a particular moment within an ongoing process of shaping the
‘groupness’ of the diaspora and in so doing reimagining the geography of
Kabylia. First, the chapter outlines how ideas of Kabyle nationhood have
developed and continue to develop in the process of diaspora, rather than
emerging only in Kabylia itself. It then analyses the geopolitics at play
during the Kabyle team’s 2018 campaign. For the MAK and its supporters,
it was certainly the taking part that counted, as it provided opportunities for
media exposure and a platform for diaspora mobilisation in a country with
weak diaspora institutions. Finally, it considers the role of social media in
not only diffusing the games, but shaping and cementing ideas of Kabyle
nationhood in the process.
Kabylia and CONIFA 2018
Kabylia is a mountainous region in the north of Algeria, immediately to the
east of the capital, Algiers. Home to roughly five million people, the region
has no official status but is widely understood to encompass at its core the
wilayas of Tizi-Ouzou, Bejaia and Bouira. Whereas the surrounding cities
and plains progressively ‘Arabised’ since the arrival of Islam in the seventh
century, Kabylia has retained its indigenous Amazigh (Berber)1 language
and culture, by virtue of the remoteness and density of its hilltop villages. It
was the last part of the Algerian littoral to be annexed by the French army,
and Kabyles earned a reputation with their French rulers for fierce
independence and supposedly secular and democratic customs (Lorcin
1999, Roberts 2014). Through the twentieth century, a disproportionately
high number of Kabyles and other Amazigh moved to France for work and
study, the sons of whom are among some of France’s most celebrated
footballers (Zinedine Zidane, Karim Benzema). In modern Algeria, regional
difference has made Kabylia the home of Berberism, resisting the post-
independence state’s attempts to establish Arabic as the sole, indigenous


language of Algerian society (Aïtel 2014). Jeunesse Sportive de Kabylie
(JSK), whose past glories include being crowned Algeria and all-African
champions several times, is based in Tizi-Ouzou. During the 1970s, the club
was a rare outlet for the expression of Amazigh identity, but was forced to
change its name to erase the mention of Kabylia (Dine 2017). Persistent and
widespread popular protest in 1980, celebrated as the ‘Berber Spring’,
established Kabylia as a bastion of cultural resistance at a time when
Amazigh identity seemed consigned to history. Every year since, on 21
April, Kabyles have organised marches and demonstrations to celebrate the
Berber Spring. In 2001, these celebrations turned to riots as the police
lethally repressed this popular mobilisation, killing more than 120 young
Kabyles (Lacoste-Dujardin 2001). This event is now commemorated as the
‘Black Spring’, and for many Kabyles underlines a sense of regional and
cultural marginalisation within Algeria.
Conservative estimates number the Kabyle diaspora in Europe, which
acts as a mirror and amplifier for Amazigh activism, at well over one
million. Amazigh associations have been a staple of local associative life in
many French and Belgian towns and cities since the 1980s and are
becoming increasingly established in Quebec. Kabyle performers such as
Idir and Lounis Aït Menguellet play to crowds of thousands in Paris and
Montreal. Every year several thousand teenagers in France take the
baccalauréat in Kabyle, even though no French school offers the course as
part of its curriculum. This well-established diaspora has a long history of
radical Amazigh activism (Aïtel 2013), most recently becoming home to
Kabylia’s self-styled ‘government in exile’, the Anavad, led by the celebrity
singer-turned-politician Ferhat Mehenni. Since its declaration in 2010, the
Anavad has developed the national independence movement (the MAK),
describing Kabylia as an indigenous territory under occupation which must
be given the opportunity to exercise self-determination (Mehenni 2017).
Despite having some popular support within Kabylia, most of its ministers
live in the diaspora where they can operate without fear of arrest or
censorship. Much of the Anavad’s activity is focused on what McConnell
(2016) has termed ‘Rehearsing the State’ through the institution of state-
like functions such as issuing identity cards and conducting diplomacy with
other state-like actors, for example within the European Free Alliance
(EFA) or the Unrepresented Nations and Peoples’ Organisation (UNPO).
Such practices necessitate performances of nationhood, whether through


flag-waving (the Anavad organised a popular vote to decide on the design
of its new national flag in 2015) or singing the national anthem, (written by
Ferhat Mehenni in 2010), and have seen the established Amazigh diaspora
in France become more ‘Kabylised’ (Harris 2019). Each year, in
commemoration of the Black Spring, the Anavad has organised a march of
thousands of Kabyles in Paris. Each of these practices contributes to
shaping the emergent diaspora and therefore nation of Kabylia, adding
visibility and some measure of political legitimacy to the Anavad. The new
national football team’s participation in the CONIFA World Football Cup
provided a high-profile opportunity for the Kabyle diaspora-nation to
emerge, to assemble, to be shaped.
The Kabyle team was something Anavad activists had dreamt about for a
long time, and as with many Anavad initiatives, was a personal project of
Ferhat Mehenni’s. Football’s power to mobilise feelings of belonging had
been clear within the Amazigh Movement for decades, with the JSK the de
facto team of Amazigh everywhere (Silverstein 2002, 2013). Each time
Algeria played, gaining some success in the 2014 FIFA World Cup, Kabyle
activists were conflicted. Their love of the game and pride in their
compatriots (many in the Algerian squad have Kabyle origins) clashed with
their rejection of the Arabo-Islamic Algerian identity explicitly performed
by ‘the only Arab team’ of the 2010 and 2014 FIFA World Cups, whose
media coverage centred on observing Islamic rituals of prayer and fasting
during the month of Ramadan (Dine 2017). As a consequence, Anavad
ministers were mentioning the project of a Kabyle team, based in Paris, as
early as 2015. The right context for such a team to emerge arrived in 2018
with the CONIFA World Cup in London – easily reachable for a team
drawn from the diaspora. CONIFA is an umbrella organisation for football
associations unaffiliated with FIFA, which presents itself as a “global acting
non-profit organization that supports representatives of international
football teams from nations, de-facto nations, regions, minority peoples and
sports isolated territories” (CONIFA 2019). The London competition was
the third it had organised, and was a far larger operation than the previous
tournaments in Abkhazia and Suomi, attracting higher participation and
media exposure by virtue of its situation in such a global city (Hendicott
2019). In order to qualify, the Kabyle team played a series of friendly
matches, accruing enough points to progress to the competition. Due to the
timing of these qualifying games, falling in the summer when French teams


were on vacation, the qualifying team was put together in Kabylia.
However, the final team was mostly made up of players drawn from the
lower tiers of the French league, a goalkeeper from Canada and only six
players coming from Kabylia itself. According to manager Aksel Bellabaci,
this was always the plan. The team was first conceived of in Paris, and
always aimed to draw players mostly from the diaspora.
Similarly, the supporters that attended the CONIFA tournament were
already living in Europe. By coming together around the games, they
embodied and constituted the Kabyle diaspora-as-process. MAK supporters
from Paris organised a coach to transport around forty fans to London for
the tournament, and sold the team’s shirts in their cafes and businesses to
raise money for the team. The Anavad’s media team travelled with them to
report on the tournament, including interviews with the athletes and Anavad
ministers and Kabyle-language match commentary broadcast on their
Facebook-hosted channel Taqvaylit.TV. This meant that each game Kabylia
played had a quorum of fans, who were already prepared for performances
of nationalism, waving their new national flags and singing the new
national anthem. These fans would form the backdrop for all media
coverage of the Kabyle team’s progress, earning a reputation as “CONIFA’s
most passionate separatists” (Hendicott 2019) and featuring in several
journalists’ articles covering the tournament (e.g. Andrei 2018, CNN 2018,
RTBE 2018). As we will unpack later, as emotive as it was for fans and
players for Kabylia to be represented as a nation within the CONIFA
tournament, it was also vital to the Anavad that it curate Kabylia’s image.
Whilst the backbone of the Kabyle support was made up of convinced
MAK activists, several Kabyles living in the UK came to spectate, curious
about the idea of a national Kabylia football team. Some heard through
word of mouth, often from UK-based acquaintances who were following
one of the other teams, and many others had seen it through social media.
Achour had heard of the tournament from Tibetan friends and told me that
arriving at the ground to see Kabylia play was an “emotional, happy
moment”. As Kabyle and Tibetan teams exchanged gifts and signs of peace
prior to the match, Achour was meeting the other Kabyles, who were telling
him about the MAK’s activities in the UK. Although many Kabyles have
made the UK their home in recent decades, only one association existed
prior to the CONIFA tournament, organised as an Amazigh cultural
association. In comparison with France and Canada, Amazigh diaspora


practices in the UK have been small-scale and short-lived (Harris 2015).
The CONIFA tournament marked a transformation of the diaspora
assemblage; the existing association changed its name to ‘Kabyle/Amazigh’
and a new ‘Kabylian Community in the UK’ sprang up to organise a Berber
Spring commemoration in London, inviting local politicians and a Kabyle
academic to attend. The diaspora assemblage was now mobilising a notion
of Kabyle national identity rather than Amazigh cultural identity, linked to a
more precise and more localised geographical territory, the independence of
which the Anavad continues to call for. This kind of diaspora mobilisation
is of course what the Anavad was hoping to achieve, just as it has
transformed diaspora framing practices in France and Canada, ‘Kabylising’
them (see Harris 2019).
Assembling the diasporic nation
Existing scholarship on the geopolitics of diaspora has demonstrated how
diasporas decentre state categories (Barrineau 2015), and reconfigure
territory through transnational practices (Carter 2005, McConnell 2013).
The Kabyle diaspora assemblage around the CONIFA tournament did both
of these things, through embodying and performing a territorially defined
nation amongst other nations. The minds behind the concept of assemblage,
Deleuze and Guattari, wrote that “every assemblage is basically territorial
… [t]he territory makes the assemblage” (2003, pp. 503–504). This is often
taken to mean that every assemblage must be grounded in its localised
spatio-political context, and political geographers have used this concept to
look in fine detail at the geopolitics of localised spaces and terrains such as
borders and refugee camps (Megoran 2006, Ramadan 2013, Squire 2015).
However, in the case of diaspora assemblage this context is transnational,
uniting spatially non-contiguous territories, polities and structures.
Interconnectedness through various media and communication technologies
plays a key role in the contemporary geopolitics of diaspora, with
multimedia social platforms like Facebook having a particular effect
(Bernal 2018, Harris 2020). The representation of Kabylia in diaspora at the
CONIFA tournament was two-fold: the nation was embodied through
gathering and mobilising, and the nation was displayed through
performance and mediatisation. Speaking to me during the tournament,
Anavad Sports Minister Sab Ammar Khodja explained; “There was a


double interest for us in participating in the CONIFA tournament – it
brought us together as Kabyles and made us visible to the world”. This
‘double interest’ will be unpacked for the remainder of the chapter.
It was clear throughout that for the Kabyle activists, their team’s
performance on the pitch was immaterial to the success of their tournament.
As Kabylia lost 8–0 to Panjab in their opening game in Slough, fans
continued to cheer, and the man next to me turned to say: “The result isn’t
important. It’s the qualification, the training, the Kabylisation, the
independence”. Favourite chants from the stands included Anwar wiggi?
Iqvayliyen! (Who are these people? Kabyles!) and Kabylie Indépendant
(Independent Kabylia). Self-appointed chant leader and “No. 1 fan” Alsas
Aït Saɛd was there with his two UK-born daughters, in Kabyle traditional
dress. He told me he didn’t care for the MAK but was there for Kabylia. It
was important for him that his daughters be in a Kabyle context, hear the
language, and hopefully have good memories later in life to keep them
“attached to their culture”. Another pair of fans had journeyed two hours
from Brighton, one wearing a JSK jersey, the other the brand new Kabylia
national strip modelled on the Anavad’s national flag. They were similarly
excited to be amongst “their people” for the first time in the UK, and kept
asking others around them when the next meetings would be after the
tournament. For the fans, the opportunity to ‘be Kabyle’ together was
clearly a part of the attraction – to wear Kabyle clothes and speak Kabyle,
and in so doing to embody the nation. Far more than merely being passive
spectators or consumers of the competition, Kabyle supporters participated
with their time and resources by hosting visiting fans and Anavad members,
transporting them to and from events, and getting items such as astro-turf
football boots for some of the players. Aman spoke about the supporters’
participation gratefully; “they have come from all over, their sacrifices are
appreciated”.
Beyond the fans, the sporting nature of the CONIFA tournament
necessitated the bodily representation of the nation on the pitch through its
players. During the tournament, the team became the embodiment of
Kabylia, despite being mostly drawn from the diaspora. Bellabaci was
emphatic; “It’s beautiful, we’ve brought together Kabyles from four
continents to play … we’ve created a family here in London”. He explained
that all players trialling for the squad were required to “be Kabyle”, to be “a
team that speaks in [Kabylia’s] name, that speaks Kabyle, that represents


the Kabyle identity”. It is well established that legitimacy of certain athletes
to represent their nations, particularly those with dual-nationality or
immigrant parents, is frequently put into question at major international
sporting events as a way of policing the boundaries of the national (Cronin
and Mayall 1998). Nationality tests are technically irrelevant in the
CONIFA competition, as the teams are classified as ‘members’ and not
‘nations’ (Hendicott 2019); however, for the Kabyle team and others, proof
of national identity was important. Indeed, the tournament was nearly
derailed by a dispute over the inclusion of an ex-Libyan international in the
Barawa squad, which led to Ellan Vannin pulling out in protest. Kabylia’s
criteria for nationality were not made explicit; players did not need to speak
Kabyle, have an Anavad-issued Kabyle Identity Card or Kabyle parents, or
live in Kabylia; however, all players were legimitised by some combination
of these. A dialogic process of self-identification and community validation,
inherent in every assertion of ‘Kabyle’ identity, is made explicit in this
example. This dialogic process is identical to the constant reproduction of
“groupness” in diaspora as “a category of practice, project, claim and
stance” (Brubaker 2005, p. 13), as the Kabyle diaspora negotiates and
reshapes the meanings, symbols and geographies of the emergent Kabyle
nation.
If the Kabyle nation was gathered and performed physically at the
games, it was also networked and represented transnationally through the
mediatisation of the tournament. The internet is a key political opportunity
structure for contemporary diasporas. It allows diasporas to mobilise,
network and communicate within and beyond their memberships.
Matches were broadcast live on the internet by CONIFA partner
mycujoo.tv, with over 8,000 tuning in to watch Kabylia’s first game against
Panjab. The numbers engaging on social media were far higher, however, as
over 124,000 watched via the Anavad’s Facebook-hosted channel
Taqvaylit.tv. Bellabaci explained: “I’m really surprised to see how many
people are watching us play [online]. It’s inspiring … since our 8–0 win
[against Tibet] all the social media sites, the Kabyle pages, were saturated
with images of our team”. The pages Bellabaci was referring to, such as
“Les Kabyles de Londres”, “Tous pour un État Kabyle” or “L’Ambiance
Kabyle”, for example, regroup several thousands of users who post content
on Kabyle culture and identity several times a day. These groups, whose
members are not necessarily pro-MAK, nonetheless create spaces that are


avowedly Kabyles. A Kabyle ‘groupness’ is fashioned by and through these
groups, as distinct from the ‘Algerian’ or even the ‘Amazigh’, which the
Anavad then seeks to represent. Mediatisation reached beyond established
Kabyle online networks, however. Before the tournament Anavad
ambassador to the UK Anazar U Chavah explained that “[gaining visibility]
in the UK is more important than in France, in France it’s a [media]
blackout”. Despite staging large demonstrations in Paris, the Anavad has
struggled to attract any mainstream media coverage in France or Algeria,
something its ministers blame on the collusion of Franco-Algerian interests.
The London games provided an opportunity to change this, and Anavad
ministers were ecstatic when mainstream international media organisations
such as Le Monde, The Guardian, The New York Times and CNN reported
on the games, naming Kabylia and describing its territory and its people as
the Anavad represented it.
Ho and McConnell “propose that diasporas function as diplomatic actors
in their own right … realizing alternative political projects through their
interactions with the other social actors found in diaspora assemblages”
(2019, p. 11), and Anavad president Ferhat Mehenni certainly treated his
time in London as a diplomatic exercise. Accompanied by the newly
appointed “Kabyle ambassador to the UK”, who referred to the games as
“sporting diplomacy”, he gave talks in Cambridge and London defending
the project of Kabyle independence, signing and selling copies of his
Memorandum for the Independence of Kabylia (Mehenni 2017). He also
created a diplomatic incident by choosing this moment to call on Kabyles to
organise a ‘security organisation’ to defend their communities rather than
trust the Algerian authorities. He explicitly linked his broadcast to Charles
de Gaulle’s ‘Appel de Londres’ rallying the French resistance in 1940, and
succeeded in eliciting a public response from Algerian authorities and
politicians who saw his speech as a divisive and dangerous call to arms
which might lead to violence. Though Mehenni’s appel did little to change
the situation on the ground in Kabylia, it articulated the Anavad’s desire for
Kabylia to be visible to the world as a nation seeking independence,
exemplified in its team’s emergence alongside more well-known stateless
nations with established diplomatic institutions, such as Tibet.
The Kabylia that was presented to the world, then, was a nation
searching for its independence, a territory wrongly attached to Algeria
during the French colonial period, suffering marginalisation and oppression


at the hands of the authoritarian Algerian state. The Anavad was the Kabyle
‘government in exile’, the legitimate representatives of the Kabyle people,
its ministers speaking on their behalf in numerous pitch-side interviews.
Reports focused on how the players had risked arrest to play at the games,
and their families had faced intimidation and threats back in Kabylia. Maps
of Kabylia correlated to the territorial claim of the MAK, which in reality
extend far wider than its core regions of popular support. Of course, there is
a measure of truth to this representation of Kabylia, and this is not to claim
that it is necessarily false. Whilst they were a minority, some players
certainly had to overcome resistance to their participation, and Kabylia
definitely does exist as a distinct cultural region within Algeria. The media
coverage of Kabylia at the CONIFA World Football Cup, however, was
based upon the deeply partisan discourse of the MAK, and presented in
such a way as to suggest that, beyond any question, Kabylia is a nation.
Such a claim would have been impossible only a decade ago, and remains a
live debate even within Amazigh circles. In representing Kabylia as a
nation to the Kabyle viewers and rest of the world, with its flags and its
football team, the mediatisation of the CONIFA tournament adds weight to
the claim that Kabylia is indeed a nation. Such a change in popular
perceptions would have ramifications across North Africa, where regional
political change is ongoing since the ‘Arab Spring’ and where other
Amazigh groups are beginning to call for greater recognition and autonomy
(Maddy-Weitzman 2015).
Conclusion
Whilst not the case for every team member at CONIFA, joining and
competing was performative of an intended future national independence
for the Kabyle team, due to the Anavad’s central role in organising its
participation. Aksel Bellabaci claimed that “without Ferhat Mehenni, the
President, there would never have been a Kabyle national football team”.
Despite this he insisted that the team was “for all Kabyles, not just the team
of the MAK”, hinting at what this chapter has sought to argue, that the
Kabyle team at the CONIFA World Football Cup mobilised a Kabyle
diaspora-nation, an assemblage of practices and discourses that framed the
spaces of Kabylia and its nationhood. By bringing players and supporters
together in the name of Kabylia, complete with the symbols of nationality


1
now expected at international sporting events, the tournament helped
reshape the faintly existing Amazigh diaspora in the UK into a more Kabyle
diaspora with links to the MAK. The mediatisation of the spectacle, greatly
helped by social media, meant that this representation of Kabylia as a
nation, which is so contentious in Kabylia itself, was on display for
hundreds of thousands of Kabyles. The mainstream media coverage of the
tournament introduced Kabylia to new international audiences and did so in
a way that largely followed the MAK’s script. Taken along with Mehenni’s
Appel de Londres Kabylia’s tournament was an act of secession, performed
in diaspora, through the medium of sport.
Note
I have privileged the use of the ethnonym ‘Amazigh’ over ‘Berber’, but the reader will see that
there are times when it was appropriate to use one as opposed to the other. Both refer to the non-
Arabic, indigenous people of North Africa.
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Chapter 12
Sport and secessionism in Biafra
Johnny Precious Ogbah
Introduction
Football’s influence in Nigeria is best illustrated by the unprecedented 48-
hour truce called by both factions in the Nigerian Civil War in early 1969 to
enable fans from both Nigeria and Biafra to watch Brazilian superstar Pelé
during his club’s visit to Nigeria (Coren, 2011). Despite the inherent
dangers and suspicion within both warring factions, Lieutenant Colonel
Samuel Ogbemudia, Governor of the Midwest Region, opened the Sapelé
Bridge to enable fans to travel from Biafra to watch the match and heavily
guarded military checkpoints were also opened (Aiyegbayo, 2019).
On match day, the stadium was full and civilians and soldiers from both
sides watched the game together, united albeit for just 48 hours before they
resumed hostilities. According to Pelé’s teammate Lima,
It was strange because the whole country was divided and in conflict.
But as soon as they found out the game was to take place the war was
put on hold. It was a tiny pitch, I remember it well, the people arrived
carrying chairs on their heads in order to watch the game.
(Mehrotra, 2016)
Nigeria is the most populous black nation in the world and most of its large
population are sports lovers, either as participants or observers. According
to a 2014 survey (Boudway, 2014) carried out by Repucom.com on global


interest and global participation in football in more than 30 countries,
Nigeria topped the list of citizens with an interest in football.
Sport (especially football) is such an important part of Nigeria’s culture
that its popularity has had a huge impact on the social, political and
economic fabrics of the country (Yazid, 2014). That Nigeria is a football
crazy country is not in doubt. To many people, football is a religion that is
worshipped by all, irrespective of tribe, age or gender, and some Nigerians
even strongly believe that there is a god of soccer (Akangbe, 2018).
Football in Nigeria often evokes great pride amongst the citizenry and
often proves an essential diversion from the many socio-economic and
political problems of the giant of Africa (Solaja, 2014). In a country
constantly torn apart across tribal and religious lines, football has proved to
be a strong unifying force, as exemplified by the remarkable wartime truce
to allow both factions to watch Pelé play live in Nigeria.
Fast forward to 14 July 2019. The Nigerian senior national team, the
Super Eagles, were about to play Algeria in the semi-finals of the African
Cup of Nations in Cairo. Most of the Super Eagles were Igbos, from the
eastern part of Nigeria formerly known as Biafra, which had failed in its
secession bid in 1967 that led to the Nigerian Civil War. Even though
tensions were gradually rising amid religious violence and fresh calls for
secession from the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB), the unity of the
nation was strongest when they united as a football team to face outside
opposition in competitive matches. Or so it appeared.
As tension grew before the game, a number of northern Nigerians from
the mainly Hausa/Fulani tribe went on social media to say they hoped
Nigeria would lose to Algeria because most of the Nigerian players were
Igbos. One Northerner, Muhammad Abubakhar Dakha, wrote on Facebook
that Algerians are Muslims and he hates anyone who hates his Muslim
brothers, including Nigerian footballers from the lazy tribe of Igbos and he
would not support them against Algeria (Ubani, 2019).
Sport, especially football, has been the strongest bond in an
amalgamation of over 400 different ethnicities, each with its own distinctive
character (Adenrele and Olugbenga, 2012), but recent outbursts from
disgruntled Northern football fans and the backlash that ensued from the
Igbos and other tribes revealed a major challenge to football’s capacity to
unite a country divided along tribal and religious lines, a nation that was
created by force by British colonial masters. Perhaps the citizens of Nigeria


have become so embittered with the union that not even football can hold
them together any longer.
British complicity, amalgamation and a forced marriage
The marriage between the Northern and Southern Nigeria regions resembles
a pair of shears, joined together so that they cannot be separated but moving
in opposite directions. This is not surprising in a nation where ethnic
pluralism and cultural diversity are often pervaded by a tense and volatile
atmosphere emanating from discord and rivalry amongst different tribes and
religions (Adenrele and Olugbenga, 2012). However, in what appeared to
be a period of calm during the military regimes, questions are again being
asked about why the union was made in the first place.
On 1 January 1914, the amalgamation of the Northern Nigeria
Protectorate and the Colony and Protectorate of Southern Nigeria by Lord
Frederick Lugard, the governor of both protectorates, brought about a union
of the diverse ethnic groups around the Benue valley, the Gulf of Guinea
and the western Sudan, creating the Colony and Protectorate of Nigeria
(Obi-Ani, Obi-Ani and Isiani, 2016). Before the British colonial masters
arrived and brought about the amalgamation, the area consisted of three
major ethnic groups with different traditional modes of indigenous
governance.
The Northern region, a confederation of provinces operating a feudal
system of governance, was largely dominated by the Muslim and
Hausa/Fulani-speaking people who comprise about 25 per cent of the
Nigerian population (Okoh, 2018). The Western region, predominantly
Yoruba speaking, consisted of a variety of independent polities ruled by
kings. They make up 21 per cent of Nigeria’s total population (Okoh, 2018).
Because of their early contact with Europeans through the coast of Lagos,
the Yorubas made the most progress in education, commerce and
administration. The Eastern region, compromising about 18 per cent of
Nigeria’s total population (Okoh, 2018), was largely dominated by the Igbo
people, with a governance structure based on independent village groups.
The Igbos made the best of Western influence, becoming educated and
industrious and moving freely outside their region to work as traders,
clerks, business men and labourers (Obi-Ani, Obi-Ani and Isiani, 2016).


There are about 250 other different ethno-linguistic groups (Minority
Rights, 2018) in addition to the three major ethnic groups and, while
ethnicities in the Northern region were predominantly Muslim, those in the
Eastern region were predominantly Christians with those in the Southern
Union embracing both Islam and Christianity (NewsHour, 2007). Over
time, these different ethnic groups had evolved different political
institutions, different cultures and different levels of economic attainment
until the arrival and forceful colonization of their territories by the British
who merged these independent, ethnically diverse ethnicities without
consulting them or giving them an opportunity to reject or accept the union
(Obi-Ani, Obi-Ani and Isiani, 2016).
Many reasons have been given for Lugard’s forced marriage. Some
believe that the British combined the two protectorates and the Lagos
Colony in order to reduce their costs and administrative burden. Others
believe it was a ploy to effectively use the rich resources of the South to
cushion the cost of administration of the much less economically
prosperous North (Akinjide, 2017). Lord Lugard was quoted as saying that
the union was akin to a marriage between a rich wife of substance and
means (the South) and a poor husband (the North) and that such a marriage
would lead to a happy life for both (McCaslin, 2018). Perhaps by portraying
the North as the husband who is traditionally the head of the house, Lugard
was subtly referring to the political supremacy of the North over the South
for which the British helped put the machinery in place.
As access to Western culture and civilization made the Yorubas and
Igbos more educated and thus less susceptible to the whims and caprices of
the colonial masters, the British concocted a plan by which to maintain their
grip over the whole territory. They sealed off the South from the North from
1914 to 1960 only allowing minimum contact to prevent the North from
being polluted by the liberal ideas of the educated South (Akinjide, 2017).
Believing that more backward people were less rebellious compared with
more advanced people (Okpoko and Onuoha, 2020), they favoured the
North politically and empowered them to dominate the other ethnicities
despite their lesser economic strength. This policy was summed up in the
independence constitution which provided for a federal structure that left
the North, “in a commanding position, with a potential stranglehold over
the political process, capable of dominating the combined weight of the
other two regions” (Meredith, 2011, p. 77).


Criticisms of the forced marriage
From the very beginning, this forced cohabitation was controversial and
was met with severe criticisms (Iruonagbe and Egharevba, 2015). Richard
Akinjide, a member of the first post-independence parliament and former
Minister of Education, said the amalgamation was a fraud and labelled it
one of the root causes of the present-day problems of Nigeria (Akinjide,
2017). According to him the colonial masters looked at the United
Kingdom and tried to create a structure akin to it in Nigeria without
considering the glaring ethnic and cultural differences which were absent
from the UK but abundant in Nigeria.
Prominent Yoruba statesman, Chief Obafemi Awolowo, a dominant
force in Western Nigerian politics for more than 30 years said in 1947 that
Nigeria was a mere geographical expression and not a nation, adding that
the word Nigerian is merely used to differentiate those who live within the
boundaries of Nigeria and those who do not (Obi-Ani, Obi-Ani and Isiani,
2016). Sir Abubakar Tafawa Balewa, who later became the Prime Minister
of Nigeria during the first republic, also pointed out the mistake of lumping
everybody together in hope of unity (Coleman, 1965).
Babawale (1991) believes Nigerians who think Nigeria is one nation are
deceiving themselves. Ekanola (2006) echoes this, saying that despite
Nigeria’s oil riches, the country is bedevilled by problems that inhibit its
development, many of which are the result of its origin as an artificial
colonial construct. Surprisingly, the Igbos were initially the least critical of
the amalgamation. They continued to emigrate from their homeland to the
Southern and Northern areas to work and trade, to freely settle down and
form communal unions (Obi-Ani, Obi-Ani and Isiani, 2016). Respected
Igbo politician Dr Nnamdi Azikiwe, who later became President of Nigeria,
said in 1958:
The various communities or nationalities inhabiting this county have
great traditions and a rich heritage of cultures which if pooled together,
can make Nigeria great and enable her to take her rightful place among
the family of nations.
(quoted in Coleman, 1965, p. 328)
Secessionist movements


It is interesting to note that agitation for secessionism from Nigeria was first
raised by the Northern region around 1950. The Northerners were unhappy
with the way the industrious, adventurous and business-minded Igbo traders
came to their region and brought their different culture, values and religion.
Having been secluded from the South pre-independence, this intrusion did
not go down well. In a 1952 speech made in the Northern House of
Assembly, Kaduna, Sir Alhaji Abubakar Tafawa Balewa said,
The Southern people who are swarming into this region daily in large
numbers are really intruders. We don’t want them and they are not
welcome here in the North. Since the amalgamation in 1914, the
British Government has been trying to make Nigeria into one country,
but the Nigerian people are different in every way including religion,
custom, language and aspiration. The fact that we’re all Africans might
have misguided the British Government. We here in the North, take it
that ‘Nigerian unity’ is not for us.
(quoted in Adeleye, 2012)
When they could not muster enough willpower to secede, perhaps due to
their close relationship with the British, the North began to vent its anger on
hapless Igbo traders. Violent attacks on Igbos in the Northern cities of Jos
in 1945 and Kano in 1953 clearly revealed “a pattern of Northern hatred
and hostility towards Eastern foreigners in their towns” (Anthony, 2014).
The first military coup d’état in Nigeria was led by six Igbo officers and
a Yoruba officer on 15 January 1966. It was celebrated by the whole
country who were tired of the political wrangling, corruption and
incompetence on the part of the ruling elite. However, when it was
discovered that the casualties were mainly prominent Northern Nigeria
leaders and military officers such as Sir Ahmadu Bello (Premier of the
Northern Region and the Sardauna of Sokoto), Sir Abubakar Tafawa
Balewa (Prime Minister of Nigeria), Chief Samuel Ladoke (Premier of the
Western Region) and Chief Festus Okotie Eboh (Federal Minister of
Finance) and not a single prominent Igbo leader was killed, the Northerners
saw this as an Igbo strategy to dominate (Obi-Ani and Obi-Ani, 2016). This
overlooked the fact that two Igbo officers, Major-General Aguiyi–Ironsi
and Major Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu, almost single-handedly
foiled the coup (Forsyth, 1992).


The tribalization of the coup resulted in a series of well-coordinated
attacks carried out simultaneously in several Northern states where Igbos
were targeted at their homes and in churches by the combined action of
Northern soldiers, local government police and civilians. This culminated
on 29 July 1966 with a revenge coup by the North during which more than
200 officers and men, mostly of Igbo origin, were systematically massacred
by their Northern comrades in military barracks in the North (Anthony,
2014).
Civil War, 1967–1970
What followed next was the Igbo nation’s declaration of the independence
of the Republic of Biafra led by Major Ojukwu, one of the two Igbo men
who foiled the initial ‘Igbo Coup’ of January 1966. Instead of gladly
allowing the Igbos’ secession, the North resisted the break-up of the
alliance, with the support of their longstanding British allies and what
ensued was a bloody civil war that lasted for 30 months and left many dead,
injured or homeless.
The North’s decision was prompted by the discovery of large oil reserves
near Igboland and the British government’s desire to maintain its grip over
the whole territory, including its oil reserves. General Olusegun Obasanjo,
once the military head of state and subsequently civilian president,
confirmed this when he said that the main reason for the war was to prevent
the Igbos from appropriating the oil resources in the region (Duruji, 2012).
According to Chibuike Uche (2008), even though the British government
officially maintained that its main interest in the Nigeria conflict was to
prevent the break-up of the country along tribal lines, the true reason behind
their backing their Northern allies as revealed from evidence mainly from
the Public Records Office (now the National Archive) in London was much
more complex. The evidence suggests that British oil interests were the
dominant factor, Britain primarily interested in protecting the investments
of Shell-BP and thus supporting a ‘One Nigeria’ solution to keep Nigerian
oil flowing in order to mitigate the impact of its domestic oil shortfalls
caused by the Middle East Six Day War (Public Records Office, 1967).
Therefore, the British advised their Northern allies that maintaining one
Nigeria was in their best interests and supported them to prevent the
disintegration of the forced marriage (Uche, 2008).


British influence on the civil war was glaring, not only giving Nigeria
the resources to fight the secessionists but also giving them the audacity to
commit atrocious war crimes without any retribution or even caution.
According to Ojukwu, Nigeria could not have done one hundredth of what
they did without the support of British Prime Minister Harold Wilson
(Anthony, 2014). The Biafrans accused Nigeria of genocide and a report by
United States Senator Charles Goodell, after a brief study tour in 1969,
revealed several Nigerian strikes against civilian targets in the previous year
alone, including nine air attacks on hospitals, the first three of which were
clearly marked with the Red Cross (Anthony, 2014). In addition to targeting
civilians, the Nigerian army, despite pleas from international organizations,
imposed blockades that prevented aid groups from delivering food and
relief supplies to Biafra, thus causing many children to die of kwashiorkor,
a severe form of malnutrition characterized by a distended abdomen
(Oduah, 2017).
Nigeria did not deny its underhand tactics. The country released a
statement saying that it did not invent economic blockade as an instrument
of war, the Federal Commissioner of Information Anthony Enahoro said
“there are various ways of fighting a war. You might starve your enemy into
submission, or you might kill him on the battlefield” (quoted in Anthony,
2014, p. 217). Chief Obafemi Awolowo added the now infamous statement
that all is fair in war, stating that starvation is one of the weapons of war
and that he did not see any sense in feeding enemies to allow them to fight
harder (Ekwe-Ekwe, 2017). Soon, pictures of starving, malnourished
Biafran children, including one on the cover of Life magazine on 12 July
1968, shook the whole world and provoked a worldwide outcry, with many
condemning the barbaric actions of the Nigerian army and the support of
the UK government.
John Lennon, British singer-songwriter and member of The Beatles
returned the MBE awarded him by the Queen in protest at the UK’s
involvement in the Nigerian–Biafran War (Oduah, 2017). Steve Jobs, the
co-founder of Apple reveals in his autobiography that as a 13-year-old, he
became an agnostic and stopped going to church after he saw the Life
picture of two starving Biafran children (Ebiem, 2011). Yet Britain did
nothing to deny or even hide its backing of the Nigerian army. Furthermore,
the USSR, Egypt and the Arab League teamed up to support Nigeria against
the Biafrans in a war that the Nigerian army expected would be brief due to


the support they had and the seeming helplessness of the secessionists but
which dragged on for almost three years before the surrender on 15 January
1970 (Forsyth, 1992).
No victor, no vanquished
Upon the surrender of the Biafran troops, the Nigerian government declared
there was no victor and no vanquished, a declaration apparently made in
order to foster national unity (Oduah, 2017). However, subsequent events
soon showed the former Biafrans that they were a conquered people.
According to Duruji (2012, p. 338), the federal government “ran the affairs
of the country with the bitter memories of their war-time experiences as
reflected in some of the policies of marginalization targeted at the Igbo
people who were in reality seen as losers that ought to be treated so”.
In the military, Igbos were systematically shut out from the top echelons,
with all officers from the rank of captain and above who fought on the
Biafran side being dismissed from service. There were also complaints of
deficient infrastructural development in Igbo land and of discrimination
against Igbos in terms of locating industries and projects which could have
been beneficial to the local people (Duruji, 2012). Subsequently, there was
gross under-representation in administrative positions (Liechtenstein, 2017).
The cold shoulder given to the Igbos became obvious by contrast with the
massive attention given to Northern and Western Nigeria by the federal
government (Ikpeze, 2000).
The federal government hit former Biafrans hard economically, stripping
them of their wealth with a new bank lodgement policy and, at the same
time as having crippled the Igbos economically, the Gowon administration
introduced an indigenization programme whereby shares in foreign
companies operating in Nigeria were offered to Nigerian citizens but were
unaffordable for the financially incapacitated Igbos (Ikpeze, 2000).
Furthermore, all property previously owned by Biafrans in other parts of the
country were deemed to no longer belong to the Biafrans and were
“abandoned” assets contrary to the constitutional rights of natural residency
and citizenship of the Igbos. The assets were subsequently seized by locals
(Ndibe, 2011).
The master stroke for the suppression of the Igbos was the creation of
state and local government. In comparison with other areas, the South East


region has the least number of states and local government areas, which
negatively affects the allocation of resources. And because the number of
states and local governments are a determining factor for representation in
the National Assembly, this means pro-Igbo agendas easily fail to pass in
the Senate or Federal House of Representatives (Duruji, 2012).
Fresh agitation for Biafra
For three decades after the Biafran War, the Igbos appeared to be mainly
preoccupied with quietly re-integrating into a Nigerian society, hoping to
return to their pre-war position as a power bloc. Economically they had
survived the political and economic policies aimed at reducing their
capacity (Duruji, 2009) and had made giant strides in business, trade and
industry, springing up from the economic post-war suppression to become
major players in trade and industry, but politically they were still outcasts
(Igbokwe, 2005). Even under military rule, no Igbo soldier or civilian has
ruled Nigeria since the war (Duruji, 2012).
During this early post-war period, the clamour for self-determination by
the Igbos seemed to die down. However, beneath the surface, the pain
caused by the Igbos’ treatment lingered on, especially amongst the older
generation of Biafrans. According to top Nigerian singer Onyeka Onwenu,
the war never ended, as she recounts how her widowed mother was beaten
into a coma because she dared come back to claim her property in Port
Harcourt after the Biafran surrender (Chimaobi, 2020).
The advent of democracy in 1999 and the continued exclusion of the
Igbos from power caused great disappointment to those who had believed
that the openness and freedom that comes with democracy would end the
marginalization they had suffered under the military regimes (Uwazuruike,
2008). This disappointment led to a rise in renewed demands for Biafra
(Duruji, 2010). More specifically, it led to the formation of the Movement
for the Actualization of the Sovereign State of Biafra (MASSOB) led by
Chief Ralph Uwazuruike and other pro-independence groups (Onu, 2001).
Reasons for the new demands


Eghosa Osahgae, a professor of comparative politics at the University of
Ibadan, is of the opinion that the reasons behind the Biafran War have not
changed as the South Easterners still believe theirs is the most marginalized
and powerless region in the country. According to him, an imbalance of
power was what led to the war and this has intensified in recent times (DW,
2020). Duruji (2012, p. 329) believes that “the renewed demand for Biafra
by Igbo people is a rejection of their post-war socio-political and economic
condition in Nigeria” and a perception of injustice against them by the
ruling North.
Like the pogrom before the war that led to the death of about 30,000
Igbos and forced another estimated 1,800,000 to flee back to the East as
refugees, the agenda to eliminate the Igbo race from Nigeria appears not to
have waned or abated (Onu, 2001). According to Igbokwe (1995), religious
riots and ethnic disturbances have occurred repeatedly in the North with the
Igbos always the prime targets.
In November 2002, around 250 people were killed in the Northern state
of Kaduna simply because Nigeria was scheduled to host that year’s edition
of the Miss World beauty contest, which the Muslim population regarded as
heathen and offensive (Human Rights Watch, 2002). In 2006, cartoons of
the Muslim Prophet Muhammad published by a Danish newspaper led to
violence in at least four cities in Northern Nigeria leaving a death toll of
more than 127 people (Vu, 2006). According to Human Rights Watch
(2002, p. 2), thousands of lives have been lost in what appear to be religious
clashes between Christians and Muslims but, in reality, “have been
motivated less by irreconcilable religious beliefs than by political disputes
and rivalries between different ethnic and political groups”.
Reminiscent of the organized slaughter of the Igbos before the civil war,
terrorist group Boko Haram has resorted to attacking Christians in churches
in the North, a majority of whom happen to be Igbo residents, and Fulani
Herdsmen have even been bold enough to attack Igbo villages. On 25 April
2016, they invaded seven communities in the Igbo state of Enugu, killing
scores of civilians (Igata, 2016). As in 1966, the Igbo Youths Movement
accused the federal government of tacitly supporting these massacres by
turning a blind eye to the terror unleashed by Boko Haram and the Fulani
Herdsmen (Mamah and Ndujihe, 2016), bearing in mind Boko Haram and
Fulani Herdsmen were rated amongst the four deadliest terror groups in the
world by the Global Terrorism Index in 2015 (Buchanan, 2015).


Reno Omokri (2017) believes that since the civil war Nigeria has never
been as divided as it is today, and he lays the blame on the government.
President Mohammed Buhari does not hide his bias for the North with his
appointments and he justified this when, at the United States Institute of
Peace (USIP) in July 2015, he told the world press that the constituents that
gave him 97 per cent of their votes (the North) cannot in all honesty expect
to be treated equally with constituencies that gave him only 5 per cent of
their votes (Sahara Reporters, 2015).
Remi Adekoya, a Polish-Nigerian political editor is among numerous
Nigerians who believe that the country as it presently stands is not working
and needs to be restructured for secessionist demands to decease. He
advocates a total overhaul of the current political infrastructure and
decentralization of power from central government to the regions. He points
out that Nigeria ranks a lowly 152 out of 188 countries in the United
Nations’ Human Development Index, cannot provide basic amenities like
electricity and running water for its citizens and more than 60 per cent of
Nigerians live in poverty (Adekoya, 2017).
He wrote on The Washington Post website, “Nigeria as currently
designed is failing. While separatists demand an independent state,
moderates demand restructuring and the president insists Nigerians must
stick together, everyone agrees that something needs to give; the status quo
has become unbearable for too many Nigerians” (Adekoya, 2017).
The Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB), the current most vocal voice
for Biafran secession, does not share the belief that restructuring can
salvage the situation. Arguing that Nigeria is a failed state, it has called for
a referendum to give South Easterners a chance to decide if they want to
remain or leave Nigeria. Nnamdi Kanu, the leader of IPOB, says IPOB is
not pushing for self-determination for the sake of it but because Nigeria is
not functioning (Kanu, 2019). However, the Buhari administration is not
interested in any form of referendum or restructuring, preferring to kill pro-
Biafran protesters by extrajudicial executions (Gaffey, 2017a). At least 150
pro-Biafra supporters were killed between August 2015 and November
2016 and hundreds were injured (Amnesty International, 2016).
The government turns a blind eye to Boko Haram but moved quickly to
label IPOB a terrorist group and imprison Nnamdi Kanu without trial from
October 2015 to April 2017 before succumbing to pressure and releasing
him on bail (Gaffey, 2017b). Soon after, they stormed his father’s house in a


military raid but Kanu escaped and resurfaced in Israel after more than a
year later (Kanu, 2019). Kanu is dual British-Nigerian, but the silence of the
British government on the plight of their citizen illegally detained and
almost killed in Nigeria speaks volumes for their continued backing of the
North-led Nigeria and their reluctance to right the wrongs they caused with
the forced marriage of 1914.
US President Donald Trump’s recent travel ban on Nigerians because of
terrorist activities (Levin, 2020) is further punishment of the rest of Nigeria
for the actions of Northern Nigeria. Northerners rarely travel or settle
abroad, whereas people from other regions, especially Igbos, travel and
settle abroad frequently (Odi, 1999).
The potential impact on sport of separation
Sport is such an important part of Nigeria’s culture as such that the interest
in sport and its popularity have had huge effects on the social, political and
economic fabrics of Nigeria (Yazid, 2014). It has emerged as a prominent
industry (Aluko and Morakinyo, 2008). Sport fosters relationships and
strengthens bonds and has directly or indirectly aided and influenced
bilateral relations between tribes, nations and various diverse people
(Alebiosu, 2014). It was for a long time a strong unifying factor in Nigeria,
but recent developments reveal that it no longer has the grip that it used to
have on the citizens.
If Nigeria and Biafra were to go their separate ways, the impact on sport
would be felt by both sides, albeit to different degrees. At the administrative
level, the North currently dominates. Few of the National Sports
Federations (NSFs) are independent of the federal government, which
governs them through the Federal Ministry of Sports. The ministry is then
able to almost handpick executive boards of the NSFs even though elections
are conducted (Ministry of Youth and Sport, 2009). Most of these elections
are tainted with irregularities (Afolabi, 2017), but there are seldom any
adequate legal frameworks for aggrieved parties to seek redress and
complaints are often swept under the carpet while ‘chosen’ executives run
out the course of their tenures (Guardian.ng, 2017).
However, while the North controls the administration of sports in
Nigeria, their participation or involvement at national team level is minimal
across numerous sports. South Easterners dominate most national teams;


only a handful of Northern athletes reach national prominence in Nigeria’s
colours. In the women’s basketball team that qualified for the 2020 Tokyo
Olympics, only Aisha Mohammed Balarabe is from the Northern region
whereas the rest of the players are of Igbo descent (Afrobasket, 2020). This
is also true for the men’s team for which four of the five starters are Igbo
and only Al-Farouq Aminu and Talib Zanna are from the North. Eight of
the 12 members of the squad are Igbos (Afrobasket, 2019). However, the
Nigeria Basketball Federation President is Ahmadu Musa Kida, a
Northerner (NBBF, 2020).
The story is the same in most sports, especially football. Most of the
famous players of Nigerian descent are Igbos. In 1978, Emmanuel Okala
became the first Nigerian to win the African Footballer of the Year award.
Nwankwo Kanu is the only Nigerian to win the African Footballer of the
Year award twice. He was also the first Nigerian to win the World Club
Champions’ Cup, the European Champions’ League, the English FA Cup
and he was the first African to captain an Olympic gold-medal-winning
team. The next most decorated Nigerian player, John Mikel Obi, and one of
the most skilful players ever to come out of Africa, Austin Okocha, are also
Igbos (Obasi, 2019).
Nigeria won the African Cup of Nations in 1980, 1994 and 2013. Only
one player from the North, Shefiu Mohammed in 1980, was a member of a
victorious team. In fact, from 1963 to date, only eight players from the
core-North have represented Nigeria in the Africa Cup of Nations
tournament. The current senior national team is dominated by Igbos. In the
last Nations Cup in 2019, only Shehu Abdullahi was from Northern Nigeria
(Ngobua, 2019) whereas 13 of the 23-man squad were Igbos (Soliman,
2019).
According to Aderonke Bello (2015), statistics show that about 70 per
cent overall national participation consists of Igbo players. She attributes
this to various reasons, some of which are physical prowess, as Igbos are
genetically sturdier than the other tribes, their enterprising character,
mentorship and support from more successful Igbo players, and a deeper
love of and dedication to the game. Her assertion is supported by the fact
that internationally, Nigerians of Igbo descent are making many more
headlines in various sports than their counterparts from other regions,
especially in the United States where migrant Igbo children have gone on to


make a major impact in soccer, basketball, athletics and even American
football at both collegiate and professional levels (Dodd, 2017).
Former Nigerian international Dahiru Sadi, a Northerner, agrees with
Aderonke, saying that most players from the North lack the ambition of
their Igbo counterparts and are easily satisfied with meagre earnings from
menial jobs rather than face challenges outside their comfort zones. He
claims that Northern footballers are talented but must change their
mentality in order to succeed (Ngobua, 2019). Sadi also believes there is a
lack of influential football agents in the North to push their players towards
Europe. He also blames poverty for the inability of the Northern players to
force themselves into the limelight as talented players from the North often
lack the resources to attend scouting programmes where scouts from
foreign teams identify fresh talent and the Northern agents and families do
not invest in their young talent, unlike Igbo families and agents (Ngobua,
2019).
Garba Lawal, unquestionably the most successful player from the North,
having won an Olympic gold medal, represented Nigeria in two Olympic
Games (1996 and 2000), at two FIFA World Cup tournaments (1998 and
2002) and at four Nations Cup tournaments (2000, 2002, 2004 and 2006),
disagrees about the lack of football agents in the North and argues that
clubs recruit talented players irrespective of where they are from. He
prefers to blame lack of discipline, perseverance and patience on the part of
the Northern players for their inability to break into the major leagues and
lead to national team selection (Ngobua, 2019).
Lumumba Dah Adeh, a former club owner from Northern Nigeria,
believes religion and cultural beliefs play a big role in the inability of
Northern players to go far in the game. According to him, many sublimely
skilled Northern players suddenly give up the game as a result of their
culture and beliefs, citing early marriage as one of the factors that forces
them out. He points out that, for a married man in Northern Nigeria,
wearing shorts to play football might be seen as degrading and so when a
player marries early he withdraws from the game rather than degrade his
family (Ngobua, 2019).
Northern players have every reason to dominate the national teams, if
only they could show the mentality. The North is blessed with more
facilities than any other region due to government investments in the
region. Aside from the senior national team that is mostly composed of


players from top European leagues, all other national teams are mainly
composed of locally based players. Furthermore, most of the teams are
handled by local coaches. With the North’s stranglehold on the federal
government and sports administration, most of the best local coaching jobs
are given to Northern coaches. Manu Garba and Salisu Yusuf have had
several stints with the national teams recently but neither could change the
tide of lack of Northern players in the national teams. Meanwhile despite
the Igbo dominance in representing Nigeria on the field of play, of the 32
presidents of the Nigerian Football Federation since 1960, only three were
Igbos, the last of them being Emeka Omeruo in 1997. Seven Northerners
have held that position and four of the last five presidents were from the
North (Bello, 2016).
Interestingly, while passion for and united support for national teams
begin to rapidly wane in Nigeria, the craze for international football clubs
grows stronger. Fans replace their support for the national teams with
support for Arsenal, Chelsea, Manchester United, Real Madrid, Barcelona
and so on (Salkida, 2012). The repercussion of this is that instead of binding
together in support of the nation, fans are scattered into different sides
depending on which club they support. Such support then gives them the
impetus to wish their nation would fail because of the presence of more
members from one or another tribe in their national team.
Conclusion
Politicians have long discovered the allure of football for Nigerians and
used it to achieve political power. This was initiated by Dr Nnamdi Azikiwe
(Boer, 2004) who founded Zik Athletic Club in rejection of racially
exclusive colonial sports clubs and, during the Second World War,
organized two football tours under the guise of supporting the war effort but
using the cover of these tours to give post-match speeches where he openly
criticized British colonial policy and pressed his demands for independence,
reform and democracy, despite heightened wartime censorship (Boer,
2006). This use of football as a means for mass mobilization is proof of the
importance of the game to Nigerians and began a trend that has continued
and will continue.
During the presidential elections in 2015, former President Goodluck
Jonathan actively featured former Super Eagles captains Nwankwo Kanu


and Joseph Yobo (Adekoya, 2017) in his campaigns in a futile bid to retain
power. However, the unifying grip of football over Nigerians and its power
to transcend tribal and religious sentiments is declining rapidly as
epitomized by the outburst by Northern fans wishing Nigerian teams to fail
because they are dominated by Igbos and saying they could not support
Christians against Muslim teams even if this meant no longer supporting the
Nigerian team.
If Biafrans get their wish and secede from Nigeria, their football team
will emerge from the break-up much stronger. Ngobua (2019) believes that
because athletes from Northern Nigeria have never featured prominently in
the senior national team, they are nowhere near the level of players from the
rest of the nation. Thus, separation may just be the impetus Northern
athletes and players need to be more disciplined and determined to face
challenges outside their comfort zones and create more opportunities for
themselves to play international football because there will be less serious
competition for places without the more gifted Igbos.
According to Mazi Nnamdi Kanu, Lord Lugard’s move to marry the rich
South to the poor North and balance the economies of both regions never
worked. Rather all it did was create a forced union of unhappy and angry
bedfellows (Kanu, 2019) which has led to the avoidable deaths of millions
and to hardship, pain and poverty for many others with no reprieve in sight.
Even though no prominent Biafran sports personality has come out to
strongly support the calls for secession, this is apparently out of fear of
sanctions and attacks from the government and its agencies. There were
reports in some blogs about moves by former Super Eagles captains Kanu,
Nwankwo, Mikel Obi and Austin Okocha to form a Biafran national team
(Opera News, 2020). However, no reputable media group in Nigeria carried
this news which makes it appear to be Biafran-sponsored propaganda.
Nevertheless, none of the men have denied the reports, which might suggest
that the media silence was a deliberate blackout by major Nigeria-
controlled media companies.
Sport used to be the biggest unifying factor in this nation, but now some
citizens wish their nation would lose as ethnic and religious rivalry eats
deep into the fabric of the country. This makes it clear and obvious that the
ordinary people have lost hope in the union and the only people fighting to
hold it together are those who have something to gain from it. With cries of
restructuring, referendum and rebuilding on many lips now, it is perhaps


time the British government did something about this failed union that they
created. While doing so, this time they should be as impartial and unbiased
as they have ever been.
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2020].


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Chapter 13
“One China with respective
interpretations” no more?
The struggle between China/PRC and
Taiwan/ROC in sport
Ying Chiang and Tzu-hsuan Chen
Introduction
The Republic of China (ROC), Taiwan, and Chinese Taipei comprise a
series of synonyms with blurred distinctions for the people not familiar with
East Asian geopolitics. Some companies even bend to pressure from the
People’s Republic of China (PRC) to make the scenario more complicated.
In such circumstances, the geographical name of Taiwan is replaced by
factually inaccurate names such as “Taiwan, China” or “Taiwan, a province
of China” in accord with the PRC’s wishes. The attempt to annihilate
Taiwan from international society has been consistent. In sport, “Chinese
Taipei” replaced “the Republic of China” as the official name for the
island’s representatives in the International Olympics Committee (IOC) and
its affiliated international federations. This is in keeping with many other
scenarios involving international organizations such as the World Trade
Organization, Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation, and so on.
Contrary to Avery Brundage’s naïve claim that “politics has no place in
sport,” the struggle over names between Taiwan/ROC and China/PRC is an
example par excellence of politics meddling with sport. Although it had a


simple beginning over a century ago it has become a political and
diplomatic conundrum for international organizations.
The Republic of China was established in 1912 after the Xinhai
Revolution led by Dr Sun Yat-sen which overthrew the Qing Dynasty. From
1912 to 1949, the Republic of China was the unchallenged name for the
authority which governed a territory of around 10 million square kilometers
in East Asia. During that time, the China National Amateur Athletic
Federation (CNAAF) was established on April 3, 1922 and was recognized
as the representative of China in the IOC. Although China was present at
the 1924 Paris Olympics, the team just attended the opening ceremony. It
was not until 1932 that Chang-chun Liu became the first Chinese athlete to
compete in the Olympics, at which he competed in 100 meters and 200
meters sprints. Overall, 103 athletes competed for the ROC at three
iterations of the Olympics from 1932 to 1948 (Sports Affairs Council,
2011a).
However, from 1895 to 1945, Taiwan, a small island 180 kilometers
offshore to the southeast of China across the Taiwan Strait, was a colony of
the Empire of Japan. The Qing Dynasty had ceded Taiwan, then a province
of the Qing Empire, in the Treaty of Shimonoseki after the Japanese victory
in the First Sino-Japanese War. At the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics, Hsing-
hsien Chang, who participated in the 400 meters hurdles, became the first
Taiwanese ever to compete in the Olympics. However, Chang had to
represent Japan and compete under the Japanese name of Seiken Cho. The
coincidental participation of Liu and Chang at the 1932 Olympics
symbolized the relationship between Taiwan and China in sport. They have
been on parallel yet, paradoxically, intertwined paths ever since.
Throughout its known history, the geographical proximity to China made
Taiwan historically influenced or directly governed by Chinese empires. Its
abundant tropical crops, especially sugar cane, and closeness to China,
Southeast Asia, and Japan made it an ideal target for the expanding
European empires since its “discovery” by the Portuguese in the sixteenth
century, who named it Formosa (“beautiful island”). The island was
subsequently occupied by the Spanish and the Dutch before it was
reclaimed by the Qing Empire in 1683.
After the Second World War, Taiwan was returned to the ROC according
to the Cairo Declaration signed in 1943 by Chiang Kai-shek, Winston
Churchill, and Franklin Roosevelt:


It is their purpose that Japan shall be stripped of all the islands in the
Pacific which she has seized or occupied since the beginning of the
first World War in 1914, and that all the territories Japan has stolen
from the Chinese, such as Manchuria, Formosa, and The Pescadores,
shall be restored to the Republic of China. Japan will also be expelled
from all other territories which she has taken by violence and greed.1
Although Taiwan was returned to the ROC after the Second World War, the
Japanese legacy was highly appreciated by Taiwanese of that generation.
When China reclaimed sovereignty over Taiwan, the government itself was
focused on its engagement with Mao Zedong and the Chinese communist
army on the mainland. Moreover, after 50 years of separation, Taiwan and
China were two very different worlds. The appointed Governor of Taiwan,
Chen Yi    ) and his staff were arrogant and disrespectful towards the
people of the former Japanese colony. An uprising finally took place on
February 28, 1947 (the 228 Incident) which has left a deep scar on
Taiwanese society ever since. Despite the unease in the aftermath of the 228
Incident, the ROC administration led by Chiang Kai-shek2 and his
Kuomintang (Chinese Nationalist Party, or KMT) had to retreat to Taiwan
after the defeat by the communists in the Chinese Civil War.
Although they were the losing side in the Civil War, the KMT and
Taiwan were able to retain the name ROC and claimed to be the sole
representative of China in the international community in the first few
decades of the aftermath. The seat in the United Nations and possession of
the power of veto as a member of the UN Security Council constituted the
most notable evidence of its legitimacy. However, with the growing
presence of the PRC on the international stage from the 1960s,
Taiwan/ROC was on the fringe of being marginalized. Since the late 1960s,
the ROC’s seat in the UN was tentative. United States aid came to an end in
1965. President John F. Kennedy suggested a “One China, One Taiwan”
policy beginning in 1961 and Lyndon B. Johnson followed his
predecessor’s will. Although the Vietnam War, the Cultural Revolution, and
aggravated relations between the PRC and the Soviet Union shifted the
Americans’ focus away from Taiwan (particularly during the Nixon
administration), it was obvious that the KMT’s legitimacy to represent
China was in jeopardy. The PRC eventually superseded the ROC and
inherited its permanent veto in the UN Security Council in 1971. The


termination of official diplomatic relations with the United States in 1979
marked yet another major setback for the isolated Taiwan administration
and, since then, the ROC has become an unstable signifier. It has to be
accompanied by qualifications, such as ROC in Taiwan, or ROC (Taiwan)
to demarcate the reality and the difference from China/PRC.
The “Taiwanization” of sport nationalism
Under Japanese colonization from 1895 to 1945, most Taiwanese had to
learn how to be Japanese. Then after the Second World War, especially after
the KMT government withdrew from Mainland China to Taiwan in 1949,
people living in Taiwan began to learn how to be Chinese.
After KMT-imposed Martial Law was lifted in 1987, a new Taiwanese
consciousness emerged and developed gradually. Taiwanese people began
to profess their distinct Taiwaneseness. Brown (2004) argued that, since
1987, for the obvious political purpose of justifying their distance from the
PRC, people in Taiwan have increasingly claimed Taiwanese identity, an
amalgam of Han culture and ancestry, indigenous culture and ancestry, and
Japanese culture (although not necessarily ancestry). The national identity
of the Taiwanese is a conflicting, heterogeneous, plural concept.
Ever since 1949, people in Taiwan have experienced complicated and
even conflicted feelings towards China. “China” in recent Taiwan
nationalist discourse is not necessarily limited to political, communist
China, but can also imply the cultural lineage of the Middle Kingdom as a
whole. Hwang (2015, p. 486) argues that there has been a binary opposition
of “Taiwanese nationalism” and “Chinese nationalism” competing with
each other on the island since the Second World War. However, with the
KMT being the totalitarian governing party which enforced Martial Law
from 1949 to 1987, “Chinese nationalism” was legal and by default. On the
other hand, “Taiwanese nationalism” was not only a taboo but could also be
seen as equivalent to promoting separatism and risking being charged with
treason under Martial Law.
Even six decades after the Chinese Civil War, identity fluctuation
between Taiwan and China is still vibrantly contingent on which political
side comes to power. No matter which side wins the office in modern
Taiwan, however, PE/sport has been appropriated and become a vital
vehicle embodying the evolution of Taiwan/ROC identity.


In 2011, the year of the centennial of the ROC, the ruling KMT
government published a ten-volume anthology of history of PE/sport in the
ROC. In the introduction to The Anthology on Sport for the Centennial of
the Republic of China: An Intellectual History of PE/Sport, the editor
wrote:
The foundation of PE/sport in the ROC was formed in mainland
(1912~1949). It had to rebuild the development after the restoration of
Taiwan. In this process, we have to eliminate the vestiges of the ruling
of Japan and, at the same time, duplicate the institutions that were
established in mainland. Furthermore, with the ever-changing situation
of international sport, we have to face the tough challenge from the
other side of Taiwan Strait.
(Sports Affairs Council, 2011b, p. 3)
As the embodiment of the confrontation of nationalisms in Taiwan’s history,
PE/sport was consistently used as a means to make differences between
“us” and “the other.” However, the “other” was not a stable signifier; it kept
changing in the different eras of the history of Taiwan/ROC.
In this chapter, we demarcate four major stages in the evolution of sport
nationalism in accordance with major historic events of Taiwan/ROC. They
are, (1) One China: from 1912 to 1949; (2) Two Chinas: from 1949 to 1981;
(3) Chinese Taipei and the Olympic formula: from 1982 to 2000; and (4)
Rising of Taiwan consciousness: 2000 onwards.
One China: from 1912 to 1949
First, in the period from 1912 to 1949, for the newborn republic that had
overthrown an empire humiliated by the advanced Western and Japanese
powers in numerous wars, the main function of PE/sport was to promote the
national identity (of China) (Sports Affairs Council, 2011a) and “to
cultivate collectivism and fight against foreign aggression” (Lu and Fan,
2014, p. 33). The ROC started to compete in the Far Eastern Champions
Games in 1913, which can be seen as part of the initiation into the world of
modern sport. The Chinese, generally, were called “the sick men of Asia”
and had nothing to do with the Olympic Games at the time. During this
period, the advanced West was the “other” for the PE/sport nationalism for


the ROC. Therefore, being able to catch up with the West, or at least
become associated with it, had become one of the goals. In 1922, the
recognition by IOC of the CNAFF was regarded as the beginning of the
relationship with the Olympics for Chinese (Sports Affairs Council, 2011b).
However, at the same time (1895–1945), as mentioned earlier, Taiwan
was colonized by Japan and China and Taiwan were on parallel paths to the
Olympics. Thus, in the 1932 Summer Olympics, Taiwan’s first Olympian,
Hsing-hsien Chang represented Japan. Meanwhile, Chang-chun Liu
represented the ROC at the Olympics. From China’s perspective, Liu was
the first but from Taiwan’s perspective, Chang was their first. When the two
paths converged in 1945, there appeared to be two rival historical
perspectives vying for legitimacy. The China-centered perspective gained
the upper hand in the first few decades. As the official history claims, it was
“pushing Chinese sport to a new era, raising the ROC’s national flag at the
Olympics and setting an example to the future generations” in opposition to
the “Japanese attempt to legalize the Manchurian puppet state” (Lu and
Fan, 2014, p. 52). From the official narrative of the ROC, its people were
both Han and Chinese. “They shared the same culture and blood but
represented opposing nations. Their parallel yet intertwined paths were a
“tragedy under foreign invasion” (Sports Affairs Council, 2011a, p. 39).
These claims quoted from The Anthology on Sport for the Centennial of the
Republic of China were proof of this stance. It is understandable that
nostalgic statements of this type were coming out of the ruling apparatus
while the China-minded KMT was in power. However, it should not be
considered that there was a consensus behind this view in Taiwanese civil
society. On the contrary, this was solely a reflection of a ruling
administration that was desperately seeking any chance to reassert its
historical legitimacy in official documents when feeling under threat from
Taiwan-centered perspectives.
Two Chinas: from 1949 to 1981
The second stage of sport nationalism in Taiwan/ROC started in 1949. After
the defeat by the communists in the Chinese Civil War, the KMT
government had to retreat to Taiwan. During that time, being “anti-
Communist, anti-Soviet and reuniting the country” were the highest
national goals of the government (Sports Affairs Council, 2011b, p. 88) to


facilitate which PE/sport was appropriated by the administration. Through
the school system, physical education was taken to be a major means by
which the youth could develop strong bodies for the nation. To this end,
Chiang Kai-shek (1887–1975) made a speech at the 6th Taiwan Provincial
Games in 1951. He pointed out that
The youth are the cornerstone of our country and also the main force of
the anti-Communist, anti-Soviet movement. The purpose of the Games
is for the youth to exercise for a stronger body in order to lay the
foundation of the revolution.
(Sports Affairs Council, 2011a, p. 107)
While the goal inherited from the first stage remained in this period, the
main “other” of sport nationalism had shifted from the West to the PRC.
The PRC started to participate in the Olympic Games in 1952. This was
the beginning of the confrontation between the ROC and the PRC and the
surfacing of the “two Chinas” issue (Lu and Fan, 2014). The IOC permitted
both committees to participate in the 1952 Helsinki Olympics. However,
Taiwan/ROC decided to withdraw (Lee, Tan and Lin, 2011) when learning
that they were assigned the name with parentheses, that is, “China
(Formosa),” which suggested that the ROC was not the sole representative
of China as a whole. That was the reality that the ROC was not ready or
willing to accept. With the ROC’s absence, the PRC seized its opportunity.
Just one day prior to the opening of the Games, the Chinese Olympic
Committee (COC) received an invitation from the Organizing Committee.
Despite the lack of advanced transportation to fly the team from Beijing to
Helsinki in time for the opening ceremonies, the PRC would not let slip the
opportunity to appear on the major international stage as the representative
of China. The Chinese athletes arrived at the athletes’ village on July 29,
with only five days remaining of the Olympics, and raised the flag of the
PRC for the first time in Olympic history. However, they would not appear
again in the Olympics until 1984.
On the other hand, the KMT government continued to hold the position
of “han zei bu liang li” (   ), meaning that “the righteous and the
thieves do not coexist.” In other words, they insisted on and propagated the
view that the ROC was the only legitimate government of China despite
effectively ruling only 1/267 of the total area itself proclaimed. With


Formosa in parentheses, it was deprived of its legitimacy as the sole
representative. The authorities refused to participate in the Olympics in
which the PRC was also involved. The newspaper union in Taiwan, tightly
controlled by the KMT and its apparatus at the time, made a collective
statement to boycott the 1952 Olympics by not publishing any Olympics-
related stories (Sports Affairs Council, 2011b, p. 60).
However, when it came to the 1956 Melbourne Olympics, it was
China/PRC who withdrew from the Games because of the presence of a
Taiwan/ROC delegation called “Formosa-China.” According to The Official
Report of the Organizing Committee for the Games of the XVI Olympiad
Melbourne 1956, both the ROC and the PRC Olympic committees were
invited. However, the names “Peking China” and “Formosa China” were
adopted to refer to the PRC and the ROC respectively (Cheung, 2015). This
was unacceptable to the PRC because they were determined to represent the
whole of China.
From 1960 to 1968, Taiwan/ROC competed under the name Formosa-
Taiwan or Taiwan. The Taiwan/ROC delegation was referred to as “Chinese
Republic of Formosa” and marched behind the name of “Formosa China” in
the opening ceremony, according to The Official Report of the Organizing
Committee for the Games of the XVII Olympiad Rome. Despite
Taiwan/ROC’s symbolic victory as a consequence of China/PRC’s
withdrawal from the Rome Olympics, this nevertheless resulted in their
delegation marching behind an “Under Protest” sign during the opening
ceremony. However, the situation was so puzzling that even the highest
authorities in the IOC and the Rome LOC seemed unable to arrive at a
consistent name for the island. When Taiwanese decathlete C.K. Yang won
his silver medal in Rome, the first-ever medal in Taiwan/ROC history, the
noticeboard indicated that the country he represented was “Taiwan.”
After Yang made his historic breakthrough for Taiwan/ROC in the
Olympics, a song named “Welcome Ironman CK Yang” was performed on
the most popular variety shows at the time. The lyrics include the words,
The world is progressing. The Chinese son, you catch on. You set a
fine example for our brothers of the homeland. Being gritty, tenacious
and poised. A fine example for sport.
(TV Weekly, 1964)


The ambiguous situation involving names continued to occur in the
Olympics. At the Tokyo Games in 1964, Taiwan/ROC was allowed to carry
the national flag. On the other hand, the “Republic of China” in Chinese
characters (     ) was put under “TAIWAN” on the nameplate.
Nevertheless, “most of the foreign athletes from Western countries would
hardly see the difference, nor understand its meaning or significance”
(Chang, 2010, p. 129). This was a compromise resulting from negotiation
between the Deputy Director of the Taiwan/ROC delegation, Dr Liang-kuei
Chiang, and his personal friend, then Governor of Tokyo and head of the
Japanese Olympic Committee, Ryotaro Azuma (Sports Affairs Council,
2011a).
Taiwan/ROC finally got its wish in 1972 with the team appearing as the
ROC in the Munich Olympics (Cheung, 2015). However, this was also the
last time. The “two Chinas” issue reached its crisis point at the 1976
Montreal Games. The Canadian government started to adopt a “one-China”
policy under Pierre Trudeau’s administration in the early 1970s and
recognized the PRC as the sole representative of all of China. Thus, Taiwan
was denied the use of the word “China” to compete in the Olympics (Lee,
Tan and Lin, 2011). In the end, Taiwan/ROC withdrew from the 1976
Games. This rather one-sided and downward struggle continued for
Taiwan/ROC with the congress of the International Association of Athletics
Federations (IAAF)3 deciding in October of 1978 not only to accept the
PRC as a member but to grant it jurisdiction “over that territory where
athletics was at present governed by the existing IAAF member in Taiwan.”
Later, in April 1979, an action was brought to the English High Court and
the resolution was void, meaning that Taiwan/ROC remained a member of
the IAAF (Lauterpacht and Greenwood, 1987). This result was believed to
have an impact later on the IOC concerning the membership of
Taiwan/ROC. In November of the same year, the IOC ratified, in the
Nagoya Resolution, the PRC’s Olympic Committee’s name as the “Chinese
Olympic Committee” and it was suggested that Taiwan/ROC should remain
in the IOC as the “Chinese Taipei Olympic Committee” (Lee, Tan and Lin,
2011). Taiwan/ROC did not sign the agreement until 1981 in Lausanne,
Switzerland. Now known as the Lausanne Agreement, it established the
“Olympic Formula” for Taiwan/ROC to compete under the name Chinese
Taipei.


From the chronicle of China/Taiwan in the Olympics from 1949 until
1981 documented above, it is obvious that “Taiwan” was a shameful
national symbol to the KMT government during the confrontation between
the two Chinas. Therefore, they settled for the bizarre and compromised
moniker of Chinese Taipei. With “Chinese” still being included, they could
continue to deny the reality of losing the mainland to the Communist Party
of China (CPC).
Chinese Taipei and the Olympic Formula: from 1981 to
2000
During the third stage, from 1981 to 2000, the state apparatus and the
people of Taiwan started to accept the settlement of the Olympic Formula.
The Sarajevo Winter Olympics of 1984 marked Taiwan/ROC’s official
“return” to the Olympic family under the name Chinese Taipei. However, as
a subtropical island, winter sport had never grabbed the public’s attention.
Therefore, for most Taiwanese, the 1984 Los Angeles Summer Olympics
acted as the grand return for which they had been waiting. At the 1984
Games, Chinese Taipei’s Wen-yee Tsai won the lone medal, a bronze, in the
60 kg class in men’s weightlifting. In addition, the Chinese Taipei baseball
team won a bronze medal in the exhibition event. As a baseball-crazed
nation, the result was the most inspiring achievement and a proper reward
for a nation famous for its dominance in the annual Little League World
Series held in Williamsport, Pennsylvania (Morris, 2010). However, the
result itself was not good enough, considering that Taiwan/ROC was not the
only “China” competing at the Los Angeles Olympics. The China/PRC
delegation appeared in the Olympics for the first time since the 1952
Helsinki Games and had an immediate impact by winning 15 gold, 8 silver
and 9 bronze medals. Compared to Taiwan’s lone medal, the contrast was
enormous. The coexistence of both sides of the Taiwan Strait made the
Taiwanese media uncomfortable. The harsh reality of being vastly inferior
was difficult to accept. In the early days of the Los Angeles Olympics, the
athletes from Chine/PRC were nowhere to be seen on TV. It was not until
later that footage with them in it was shown to Taiwanese audiences as a
result of the loosening of regulations by the government. In accordance
with the policy at that time, all PRC-related flags, emblems, and anthems
were banned from publications and from television. Throughout the


broadcasting of the Los Angeles Olympics, the national flag of the PRC had
to be redacted so that Taiwan’s Chinese Television System (CTS) broadcast
crew had to scramble to avoid live images of the PRC flag from being
spotted by the audience (Chou, 2016). Furthermore, the Taiwanese media
did not know the right way to address those athletes from China/PRC
collectively. The Chinese athletes became “Ta Lu Hsuan Shuo,” meaning
athletes from the mainland, not only in broadcasts of the CTS, one of the
three semi-state Taiwanese terrestrial channels at that time, but also in all
the press. An editorial on the United Daily commented:
[R]ecently, all the news coverage has changed the name of our
mainland compatriots from Chung Kung Hsuan Shuo [(delegates of
Chinese Communists)] to Ta Lu Hsuan Shuo. Therefore, when Ta Lu
Hsuan Shuo win all the merits, they necessarily belong to all Chinese
people. We don’t have to let CPC get the credits. This breakthrough of
thinking should be worth noting in the frontline of thinking and culture
against CPC …
 Ta Lu Hsuan Shuo are also Descendants of the Fiery Emperor and
Yellow Emperor and outstanding children of Chinese. With their
wisdom and endurance, Ta Lu Hsuan Shuo flourish in the Olympics.
Their performance is the honor for our mainland compatriots. The CPC
just enslave them to decorate the façade of their regime and obscure the
reality. We believe that many of these outstanding athletes have their
mind yearning for freedom just like Hu Na.4 One day, we will share the
same goal and come under the same flag. Therefore, their
achievements should be regarded as the pride for all Chinese people. It
has nothing to do with CPC’s tyranny.
(United Daily, 1984)
One of the most famous scholars of Academia Sinica also expressed his
reactions:
Although these Ta Lu Hsuan Shuo represent the Chinese Communist
regime, that does not necessarily mean they are communists or even
sympathize with the party. As though their staff constantly showing
their ugly face of United Front strategy, we don’t have to put their
athletes into the same category.


(Chu, 1984)
When Taiwan/ROC and China/PRC collided for the first time in the arena
of the Olympics, this started to cause rippling after effects. The press not
only predicted more troubles ahead but also worried about the possible
impact:
Reporting the Olympics is not a singular event. There will be more this
kind of sensitive information coming up in the next few years. It is not
a proper way to deal with these objective facts by dodging it … The
public gradually sees through the domestic and international political
reality. With more open communication policy, it might cause
recognition disparity in the short term, but it can definitely ease the
public to a healthy mind when facing these kinds of information.
[Professor] Chia-ching Pan says, the reports on the Olympics might
frustrate some people. However, as long as the government can
demonstrate the capability of dealing with the problem and make the
public recognize the value of freedom and ways of our living, the faith
of citizens can be thus cultivated. In so doing, we can face the reports
of Ta Lu Hsuan Shuo’s performance with a calmer attitude. There is no
need to worry too much.
(Kao, Wong and Yang, 1984)
Despite claiming there was “no need to worry,” the anxiety hidden in the
texts was noticeable. First, it was time for Taiwan/ROC to face the harsh
reality of “two Chinas” and be forced to use the problematic compromise
moniker of Chinese Taipei. Secondly, the disparity between results, 1
bronze medal versus 15 gold, 8 silver and 9 bronze medals, was
embarrassing. As previously stated, PE/sport has been appropriated by the
state as a proxy warrior for the Taiwan/ROC government. The implications
of the disparity could be extended beyond mere sport to politics, the
economy, and so on.
If there was some comfort in the Los Angeles Olympics, it was that the
name still caused some confusion for the broadcasters in the US and
elsewhere as well for the time being, even after the settlement in the
Olympic Formula. When decathlete Fu-an Lee carried the flag of the
Chinese Taipei Olympic Committee and led the parading Taiwanese


delegation, the broadcast produced by the American Broadcasting Company
actually used the national flag of the ROC, instead of the Chinese Taipei
NOC flag as required by the Lausanne Agreement, on top of the IOC
country code TPE. There was also an introductory line indicating Chinese
Taipei’s “Location: Island east of China.” The confusion also manifested
itself in the Japanese broadcast by the NHK, in which kanji of “”
(Taipei, China) was used, instead of the currently-used phonetic translation
of Chinese Taipei in katakana “ .”
However, ever since the end of the Martial Law era (1946–1987), the
narratives of nationalism of Taiwan/ROC have changed gradually. In the
1990 Asian Games in Beijing, Taiwan/ROC delegates participated in a
major multi-sport event on PRC soil for the first time. The three terrestrial
TV stations decided to broadcast the opening ceremony in its entirety. On
the other hand, they were also prepared for potential reunification talk from
the then-General Secretary of the CPC Jiang Zemin. If that had happened,
they would have inserted commercials immediately to avoid the
predicament. They would also have dialed down the volume of the PRC
anthem or asked the anchors to “speak louder” to suppress the anthem if it
was played during their broadcast. However, they would not avoid the PRC
flag on purpose (Wang, 1990).
It appeared that not only the Taiwan/ROC state apparatus but also the
people of Taiwan had started to accept the reality and adapt to the existence
of China/PRC. Sport was among the first terrains on which settlement was
reached. This also implied that Taiwan/ROC was for now becoming an
acceptable political entity and Chinese Taipei was also becoming an
unwelcome but acceptable name.
The rising of Taiwan consciousness: 2000 onwards
According to Chiang (2015), the main goal of the ROC’s sport nationalism
was to overturn the stigma of “the sick man of Asia” before 1949.
“Westerners” were the main “other” in the narratives of this kind of
nationalism. During this era, the image of the Chinese, or Chung Hua,
covered both mainland and Taiwan. After 1949, for the KMT government
the main confrontation in sport nationalism was between the ROC and the
PRC. However, there was another emerging clash of nationalisms between
“Taiwanese nationalism” and “ROC nationalism” inside Taiwan’s civil


society. With its distinct history vis-à-vis that of the Chinese mainland, the
narrative of being genuinely Chinese that was promulgated in Taiwan
started off on shaky ground after the Second World War, especially after 50
years of Japanese colonization. The identities of the earlier migrants from
the mainland swung between two motherlands, that is, China and Japan. On
one hand, they were ethnically Han Chinese and shared common blood with
mainlanders. On the other hand, after decades of separation and different
motherlands for the two groups of people, unification would now be a
difficult task, not least because people in Taiwan had been mistreated by the
KMT government after it took control. The consciousness of Taiwan as an
independent entity from mainland China started to emerge. Even though
occasional subversive actions were suppressed under Martial Law,
Taiwanese consciousness was now passed on to the next generations.
In Taiwan, 1949 was the year of differentiation amongst the Han
population. Those who immigrated before 1949 and their offspring are
called “ben‐shen‐jen” () or native inhabitants. Most of this group fall
into the category of economic immigrants. Those who immigrated in 1949,
with the retreat of the KMT, and their offspring are called “wai‐shen‐jen” (  ) or people from outside the province. The latter group can be
categorized as political immigrants who were mostly military or
government employees. The difference between the two groups and the
poor judgment shown by the KMT when it took over Taiwan after the
Second World War eventually led to the 228 Incident, in which tens of
thousands of people were killed. The 228 Incident is mostly remembered
simply as the slaughter of the ben-sheng-jen by the wai-sheng-jen.
Humiliation and sadness overwhelmingly outweigh any sense of glory or
joy in the narratives of the ben-sheng-jen. Just as Ernest Renan argues
(1990[1882], p. 19), “humiliation unifies more than joy does. When
national memories are concerned, griefs are of more value than triumphs,
for they impose duties, and require a common effort.” This kind of grief,
which began with Japanese colonization, was taken over by the ROC and
the KMT, and, by then being bullied by the PRC in international arenas,
marks a distinct Taiwan identity.
For the pro‐independence camp, Taiwan is an “emerging nation.” People
in Taiwan must bring to an end the KMT‐driven, China‐centered ideology.
For this camp, Taiwan has been a nation for over 400 years, when their
ancestors emigrated from southeast China. Since 1949, Taiwan has been


“occupied” by the displaced and exiled regime of the KMT, a symbol of
residual Chinese political control. The full name of the KMT in Chinese is
 (Chung‐kuo‐kuo‐min‐tang, or “Chinese” Nationalist Party), which
underlines its character as an alien political power.
In 2000, Chen Shu-bian of the pro-independence Democratic
Progressive Party was elected as the first non-KMT president and became
known as “Son of Taiwan.” Under his presidency, Taiwanese independence
acquired a clearer image and a more resounding claim. During his term in
office from 2000 to 2008, Chen Shui‐bian tried hard to de‐Sinify the nation,
by replacing the name of China with Taiwan for various state‐run
enterprises and promoting the teaching in elementary schools of Hokkien,
or Bân‐lâm‐gú, a dialect shared by ben-shen-jen but prohibited by the KMT
government during their period of totalitarian rule. In the growing shadow
of China/PRC, the urge to ascertain “who we are” and “what Taiwan is”
created unprecedented mental anxiety for many Taiwanese, as frequently
reflected in media coverage (Chiang et al., 2015).
Between “Taiwanese nationalism” and “ROC nationalism” there existed
different imaginaries in the naming of national sport teams. However,
among the various elements of everyday life, sport has proven to be one of
the slowest to adjust, at least nominally. On most occasions, fans still chant
“Chung Hua Tui Chia Yu” (Go! Team Chung Hua5). Chanting “Taiwan
Chia Yu” (Go! Taiwan!) can be regarded as a political statement rather than
a neutral expression of support. Furthermore, some radical independence
activists regarded the chant “Chung Hua Tui Chia Yu” as a sign of self-
colonization and the success of brainwashing by the KMT (Wang, 2017).
During the Asian Baseball Championship in 2003, an overseas
Taiwanese Chien-liang Lin (2003) based in Japan published a piece in the
Liberty Times calling for rectifying the name to Taiwan instead of Chinese
Taipei. That marked the beginning of the name rectification movement in
Taiwanese sport. A series of political moves in June 2003 included adding
Taiwan in parentheses after the Republic of China on passport covers and
on the websites of government departments.
In 2004, Taiwan Television (TTV) started to refer to “Team Taiwan”
instead of “Team Chung Hua.” Yu Cheng, then general manager of the
company, told the media that “it’s time to refer to our national team as Team
Taiwan,” “we live in Taiwan, it’s quite normal to identify us as Taiwanese,”
“to call our national team ‘Team Chung Hua’ was wrong” (Chiang, 2015, p.


42). Following the Athens Olympics and ever since, as a political statement,
the independence-leaning Liberty Times replaced Team Chung Hua with
Team Taiwan in all reports on its sport pages.
Taiwanese nationalism was raised to a new height with President Chen
Shui-bian’s pro-independence stance. It was further fueled by successful
results by Taiwanese athletes during this period. Taiwanization was the
spirit of the time for PE/sport. Shih-hsin Chen and Mu-yen Chu, both
Taekwondo athletes, won the first two Olympic gold medals in
Taiwan/ROC history. “Pride of Taiwan” (Huang, 2004), “slugger of
Taiwan” (Lei, 2004) and “glory of Taiwan” (Hsu and Yao, 2004) were all
terms used to describe these athletes. Chen and Chu were both awarded The
Fifth Ranked Order of the Brilliant Star and became the first athletes to get
the honor in the history of Taiwan/ROC.
Chen Shui-bian seized this opportunity and further stressed his pro-
independence stance by saying, “We climbed to the top of the international
stage today. We shall break through all the obstacles to make the world
recognize Taiwan as a country” (Chen, 2004). In addition to the Olympics,
Chien-ming Wang, a Taiwanese pitcher for the New York Yankees at that
time, also became a national hero. In 2006, on Double Ten Day, Taiwan’s
national day, Chen Shui-bian brandished an autographed baseball and a
photo of Wang at the end of his speech while pleading to the nation to unite
under his leadership and make Taiwan better, “just as Wang has
accomplished in the US” (Chen, 2012). With the support of the political
leadership and inspiring results in sport, Taiwanese nationalism gained
momentum.
According to the “Changes in the Taiwanese/Chinese Identity of
Taiwanese as Tracked in Surveys” conducted by the Election Study Center
of National Chengchi University (2020), there has been an obvious trend in
the past two decades. In 1992, 46.4 per cent of the people who resided on
the island believed they were both Taiwanese and Chinese and only 17.6
per cent of them identified themselves as solely Taiwanese. Meanwhile,
25.5 per cent of people identified themselves as solely Chinese. However,
the percentage of people who identify as Chinese has declined steadily ever
since. By contrast, more and more people have identified themselves as
solely Taiwanese.
Although de jure political independence with full sovereignty recognized
by the UN and international societies was still an impossible dream,


Taiwanese consciousness took root in everyday life through sport, amongst
other things. Although this sentiment was unspeakable to international
society, it resonated among the people living on this island. It is naming that
still haunts the people in Taiwan, a fluctuating imagined community
without an agreed name.
The march from ROC nationalism towards Taiwan nationalism slowed
down as the pro-independence Chen became mired in a series of corruption
and embezzlement scandals in his second and final term of his presidency.
This resulted in Ma Ying-jeou of the KMT winning the following
presidential election in 2008 and, under Ma’s leadership, Taiwan entered
into its most PRC-leaning relationship. Many of Chen’s de-Sinification
policies were rescinded.
Meanwhile, China/PRC was becoming a highly visible emerging global
power. These changes on the two sides of the Taiwan Strait coincided to
make this a crucial phase in the transformation of national identities in
Taiwan (Chiang et al., 2015). The pendulum continued to swing between
Taiwanese nationalism and ROC nationalism. For example, there were two
very different interpretations of the Beijing Olympics in different media.
One considered the event as a “shared glory of all Chinese” and the other
commented on it as the rise of evil, even comparing it to the 1936 Berlin
Games (Chiang, 2015). However, at the very same Olympics, Taiwan’s
baseball team lost to the PRC for the first time ever in an international
tournament, a loss that was described as a day of national infamy by
Taiwanese fans and mass media.
The struggle over whether to chant “Go Taiwan!” or “Go Team Chung
hua!” continues to be a puzzle for Taiwanese fans. A younger generation of
football fans has seized the opportunity to establish its Taiwanese identity
by chanting “Go Taiwan!” or “Formosa Ale!” (Chen, 2017). A banner
raised by these avid fans saying “All Hail Formosa” was later deemed
“political” by the Asian Football Confederation in 2017. The Chinese
Taipei Football Association was thus fined $4000 for the violation (Lin,
2017). On the other hand, “Go Team Chung-hua!” chants are still the more
common in other sports arenas. The pendulum of identity for people in
Taiwan continues to swing.


Concluding thoughts: we don’t want to be Chinese
Taipei but we cannot be Taiwan … yet
After 24 peaceful years of Chinese Taipei being the moniker of
Taiwan/ROC in the Olympics, the tranquility was stirred in 2018. Activists
headed by some scholars and Chi Cheng, an Olympic medalist in the 80 m
hurdles at the 1968 Mexico City Olympics, who used to be described by the
KMT government as “the most patriotic athlete,” launched the name
rectification referendum campaign in Taiwan. The proposed referendum
asked: “Do you agree that “Taiwan” be used as the [nation’s] full name
when applying for participation in international athletic competitions and
the 2020 Tokyo Olympics?” (Huang, 2017).
With the momentum going Taiwanese nationalism’s way, the referendum
was contradictorily voted down by a roughly 45 to 55 per cent margin. The
actions behind this referendum were very complex and deserve another
piece of work to examine thoroughly. To be concise, however, athletes’
careers were on the line as the passing of the referendum might have
jeopardized their international careers. They feared that the IOC might
expel Taiwan/ROC after the application of rectification was submitted. As it
could have been seen as a breach of the Olympic Formula, especially under
pressure from China/PRC. Even President of the Chinese Taipei Olympic
Committee Hong-dow Lin spoke out publicly against the referendum by
claiming it was against IOC rules (Formosa News, 2018). Therefore, many
active athletes were very vocally opposed to the referendum and their
appeal resonated with Taiwanese citizens, as the result showed. However,
this should not be regarded as a commentary on name rectification itself.
Instead, fear of China/PRC and the eligibility to participate at all in
international sporting events influenced many voters (Chu, 2018).
After reviewing four stages of sport nationalism and Taiwan/ROC, it is
obvious that PE/sport has been an integral part of the nation’s identity.
Struggles over the name of the delegation in the Olympics have reflected
international political reality and the self-reflexivity of the people of
Taiwan/ROC throughout its 108-year history.
However, it is worth noting that even with the emergence and maturing
of Taiwanese nationalism, this does not mean an undisputed narrative of
Taiwanese nationalism has come to completion. Due to the complicated
ben-shen-jen versus wai-shen-jen rivalry and conflicts, a struggle between


1
2
3
4
5
ROC nationalism and Taiwanese nationalism persistently haunts the people
of Taiwan. With China/PRC gaining control over the narratives of a pan-
Chinese nation in international society, anxiety leading to an awakened
subjectivity of Taiwan/ROC has become a response against the trend.
At the time, because being a glory of Taiwan is still the highest goal for
most Taiwanese athletes, PE/sport also continues to serve the state on the
way to this goal. Although which name can represent the people of Taiwan
is still an unsettled domestic controversy, the substantial existence of
Taiwan/ROC could still be seen by the world with the efforts of these
athletes, even under such an awkward moniker as Chinese Taipei. That is
the puzzling reality of Taiwan/ROC.
Notes
Source: www.ndl.go.jp/constitution/e/shiryo/01/002_46/002_46tx.html.
This article adopts the Western convention of name order, namely, a given name followed by a
family name, except for prominent political and sport figures such as Chiang Kai-shek, Chen Yi,
Chi Cheng, who were known mostly in reverse order.
In June 2019, the IAAF approved a rebranding of the organization to World Athletics.
A former professional tennis player who defected from the People’s Republic of China to the
United States in 1982.
Chung Hua is a term used to describe Chinese but in a more cultural and literary sense.
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Chapter 14
The Montreal hockey nation
Ethnic and/or civic attachments?
Jack Jedwab
Introduction
National sports teams are widely believed to provide opportunities for
Canadians for positive interaction that transcend language and cultural
differences whether it is amongst sports players or fans. Across the country,
ice hockey is the sport that has traditionally been offering the most
opportunities for bridging historic language and cultural divides. The 2006
televised series viewed on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation –
Hockey: A People’s History – is described as
chronicling the story of a game and the soul of a nation. Born as a
game of survival against the snow and ice of a Canadian winter,
hockey gave a new country its first heroes and champions … hockey is
where Canada’s cultures collide and rivalries divide. It’s also a game
that unites us like nothing else can.
(McKinley, 2006)
Since the 1960s, Canada has seen its fair share of language and cultural
disputes that have often been framed as conflicts between the majority
French language province of Quebec and the rest of Canada or English
Canada. Referendums were held in 1980 and 1995 in Quebec over whether


the province would remain part of the Canadian federation. In the 1995
referendum, advocates of Quebec sovereignty were narrowly defeated and a
leader of the independence movement blamed the loss on the province’s
minority ethnic voters (the non-francophones). The aftermath of the
referendum called for important efforts at reconciling language and cultural
differences between Quebec French-speakers/francophones and English-
speakers/anglophones in Quebec and the broader Canadian population. In
2019 the majority of Canada’s 37 million people were English-speaking,
with French as the first language for over one in five Canadians. Most
French speakers reside in the province of Quebec where they constitute
some 80 percent of around eight million people. Language conflicts have
been a defining characteristic across much of Quebec and the rest of the
country’s history.
In Canada ice hockey can unify persons of diverse backgrounds, but it
can also reproduce the language and cultural conflicts that take place
outside the arena. Tony Patoine (2015) wonders whether hockey can be
used to support nation-building in Quebec as much as it has elsewhere in
Canada? Could the sport be an ingredient in driving Quebec nationalist
sentiment and supporting the goal of Quebec independence? Or does it
indeed, as some observers insist, counteract strong nationalist sentiment and
thicken attachment to Canada by creating opportunities for positive
interaction between the country’s anglophone and francophone players and
fans? It is contended here that the answer to these questions depend upon
the nature and degree of identification by Quebecers with francophone
hockey players as well as their particular connection with the province’s
storied team, the Montreal Canadiens. Over the course of their history, the
Montreal Canadiens have successfully embodied varying degrees of ethnic
and civic pride amongst their followers and that relationship will be
examined below.
The Montreal Canadiens and French Canadian
nationalism
For much of the twentieth century, French Canadians viewed the Montreal
Canadiens as the on-ice embodiment of the province’s French identity.
Founded in 1909 the team was often referred to as the “Habs” short form
for “les habitants,” a term given in the seventeenth century to the original


settlers of “New France.” In the 1940s, the Montreal Canadiens were
nicknamed “The Flying Frenchmen.” According to Patoine (2015) “from its
inception, the Club Canadien or Club de Hockey Canadien (from which the
famous CH is derived) has represented the Canadians of that era, namely
not Canadian citizens of all origins, but exclusively the descendants of
French settlers” (p. 11). Led by French Canadian hockey stars – Georges
Vezina, Butch Bouchard, Maurice Richard, Jean Beliveau, Guy Lafleur and
Patrick Roy, to name only a few – the Montreal Canadiens fueled French
Canadian pride, winning some 24 championships over the course of the
twentieth century, thus making them the most successful franchise in all
major league sports (a dynasty rivaled only by that of the New York
Yankees).
On several occasions during the last century, the Montreal Canadiens
gave French Canadians an opportunity to express their strong ethnic pride
in an era where they felt dominated by an Anglo Canadian elite. Perhaps the
most important affirmation of such pride came in March 1955, as cultural
tensions reached a height when Montreal Canadiens star player Maurice
“the Rocket” Richard punched a linesman during a game against the Boston
Bruins. Then President of the National Hockey League (NHL), Clarence
Campbell – seen by many as a symbol of the Anglo elite – suspended
Richard from the NHL playoffs, which sparked rioting in Montreal amongst
French Canadian fans. Richard ultimately emerged as a symbol in the
struggle for equality between French and English Canadians.
The feeling of pride elicited by Richard and other French Canadian
hockey players of that era is nicely articulated by prominent Canadian
writer Roch Carrier in his iconic short story entitled ‘The Hockey Sweater.’
Recalling the winter of 1946, Carrier (1979) wrote:
We all wore the same uniform as Maurice Richard, the red, white, and
blue uniform of the Montréal Canadiens, the best hockey team in the
world. We all combed our hair like Maurice Richard, and, to keep it in
place we used a kind of glue – a great deal of glue. We laced our skates
like Maurice Richard, we taped our sticks like Maurice Richard. We
cut his pictures out of all the newspapers. Truly, we knew everything
there was to know about him.
(p. 1)


As Carrier (1979) continued to explain:
Maurice was a simple man, a man like anybody else, tough, not terribly
well educated, somebody who was not blowing his own horn. He had
children so he was a family man, very simple; he was a French
Canadian like all of us. And he was tough. And he would never fear
anybody, so we were very sensitive to that. And he became the best
hockey player, so that was something. And he was one of us.
(p. 1)
In the 1952 Quebec provincial election, the underpaid and thus aggrieved
Rocket Richard ended up campaigning for Quebec’s National Union party
led by the ideologically Conservative Premier Maurice Duplessis (Gillis
2011). Richard was persuaded that the agrarian and clerical-oriented
Quebec government strongly defended French Canadians and kept the
province strong inside Canada. For his part, Duplessis in turn never missed
an opportunity to get his photo taken with Maurice Richard.
From French Canadian to Quebec nationalism
For some observers, the Richard riots served as a kind of precursor to the
battles that emerged in the political arena in the early 1960s. At that time
Quebec politicians and intellectuals departed from the conservative
nationalism of the pre-1960s Duplessis era to a more liberal and secular
expression of nationalism. The unifying element of the burgeoning
nationalism that began in the 1960s was the French language, which
became central in the evolution of a Quebec-centered identity. French
Canadian, a term rooted in common ancestry, religion, and language,
gradually gave way to the term Québécois. Thus the ‘Canadian’ would be
put aside and Québécois aimed at making territory and language the basis
for such identification. That expression of Quebec nationalism has
encountered persistent challenges in incorporating those persons living in
Quebec whose first language is not French. Over the decades, the attempt to
create an inclusive notion to make all Quebecers feel like they are
Québécois has met with mixed success.
In the early 1960s several political parties and movements emerged in
Quebec that advocated the separation of Quebec from the rest of Canada.


To this day, advocates of Quebec independence – often referred to as
sovereignists – insist that the language and cultural divide is so profound
between Québécois (referring to the 80 percent of the province of Quebec
that is francophone) and Canadians (referring to persons living outside of
Quebec) that separation was necessary and inevitable. They maintain that
Quebec was not being treated fairly within Canada and that English
Canadians did not meaningfully acknowledge Quebec’s language and
cultural difference (although many anglophone Quebecers consider
themselves to be English Canadians). Proponents of Canadian unity –
usually called federalists – point to important shared interests between
Canadians across language and cultural origins and talk about more than a
century of shared history while acknowledging that it has been difficult at
times.
The appeal to sports to further political ends has not been easy for either
Canadian federalists or Quebec sovereignists. Both camps have treaded
carefully as they generally understand the political risks associated with
using the Montreal Canadiens hockey team for such purposes. After his
retirement, Maurice Richard was careful to keep his distance from politics,
as have other well-known players with the Montreal Canadiens. Indeed it
was always with some reticence that Richard allowed himself to become an
icon for Quebec nationalists as he frequently reminded the fans that he was
“just a hockey player” (Ha 2000, para. 6).
Given the divisions amongst the Quebec population around support for
independence and in particular in Montreal, which includes many non-
French Quebecers (who are very strongly opposed to Quebec
independence), there would be a high risk of political backlash in the event
that sovereignists or federalists would use the Montreal Canadiens players
or brand to pursue their goals. But perhaps the bigger challenge in making
any such political recourse is the diminishing capacity of political leaders to
associate Richard and/or other French Canadian/Québécois players with the
Montreal Canadiens.
By the end of the 1960s, a continental and global expansion of
professional hockey eventually resulted in transforming the Montreal
Canadiens into a more ethnically diverse team of players – in other words,
they became less French in their team’s composition. In his insightful essay
‘Whose Sweater Is This?,’ Jean Harvey (2006) asserts that while hockey
has historically served to represent and give voice to French Canadian


identities, it was largely based on the ability of the Montreal Canadiens to
recruit the best French Canadian talent, thus enabling a relatively authentic
representation of French Canadian national identity. He notes that in the
team’s glory years they had a virtual monopoly on good French Canadian
players (though he mentions that the Montreal Canadiens have always had
an important minority of non-French players). But those recruitment efforts
were the result of an agreement with the NHL that gave the Montreal
Canadiens the choice of picking two homegrown players before any other
team could draft them.
If for so many years the Canadiens could build winning hockey clubs, it
was in large part due to this special circumstance. Securing the finest
homegrown talent without having to compete with the other NHL teams
enabled the Montreal Canadiens to recruit a Maurice Richard and other
future French Canadian hockey icons. It was a key ingredient in making the
Montreal Canadiens the Quebec team that was referred to as ‘les glorieux’
(the glorious ones). But with the expansion of the NHL to other North
American cities in 1967, the deal that had so benefitted the Montreal
Canadiens was revisited by the league brass and two years later the
preferential treatment was abandoned.
The Montreal Canadiens continued to reap the benefits from their
premier selections of Quebec-born players well into the 1970s and added
some talent from the rest of Canada and the United States where interest in
hockey was rising and many bright young stars dreamed of playing in
Montreal. As one devoted fan of the Montreal Canadiens put it: “The
Canadiens in the seventies were beautiful players … their playmaking, their
skating, and their passing was just stunning. As a kid growing up, we were
spoiled. We just assumed that Montreal would win the [Stanley] Cup every
year” (Gibbs 2019, para. 5).
As a harbinger of things to come, the first overall selection in the NHL
draft in 1970 was French Quebec’s Gilbert Perrault who was going to be
playing for the new franchise in Buffalo, New York. Without the advantage,
the diversification of the players on the Montreal Canadiens roster was
inevitable if they chose to stay competitive. Also the NHL hockey clubs
outside of Quebec were increasingly able to select the province’s star
francophone players. By consequence, those hockey fans in Quebec that
wanted to follow some of their preferred homegrown talent would


increasingly have to do so at newly added ice hockey franchises in an
increasing number of cities to the south of Canada’s border.
Yet another obstacle to linking French Canadian/Québécois hockey
players with Quebec national pride was the globalization of hockey. To stay
competitive, professional hockey team owners dreamed of bringing star
players from Europe to North America. Amateur hockey talent had been on
display for many years at the Winter Olympic Games and there was a
brewing dispute over world ice hockey superiority between the Soviet
Union and Canada, both believing that their players were the best in the
game.
The penultimate ice hockey showdown between Canada and the Soviet
Union took place in 1972. To beat the Soviets required a Canadian squad
with the best French, English and other Canadian players joining forces.
Such diverse Canadian teams would also be needed in the years ahead to
compete against other emerging international rivals.
Canada narrowly won what has been hailed as the 1972 summit or
century series with the winning goal in the final game scored by Ontario-
born Paul Henderson with the help of fellow Ontarian Phil Esposito and
Quebec-born Yvan Cournoyer. As one Canadian politician observed: “That
is the kind of co-operation we need in this country: An English Canadian, a
French Canadian and an Italian Canadian working together to help us win a
hockey series” (House of Commons 1994, sect. 3604).
After the 1972 century series, then Canadian Prime Minister Pierre
Elliott Trudeau said that this series had done more for Canadian nationalism
than any politician’s speech. Despite Trudeau’s observation, over the course
of the 1970s, Quebec’s support for separation continued to increase and in
1976 the political party that advocated independence formed the
government of the province as it won the majority of seats in the legislature.
Over the course of the decade, the Montreal Canadiens remained the NHL’s
dominant winning championships in 1971 and 1973, before assembling one
of the most talented rosters in NHL history and winning four consecutive
championships. In 1976 the Montreal Canadiens won their nineteenth
championship (the first of what became four consecutive championships).
On the night of the 1976 Parti Québécois victory, the Montreal Forum
(then the home arena of the Montreal Canadiens) was very silent. As the
election results came in on the overhead scoreboard reporting the victory of
the Parti Québécois, thousands stood up and cheered while others were


nervously silent. In his book The Game, then Montreal Canadiens
goaltender Ken Dryden (2005[1983]) wrote:
At that moment, people who had sat together for many years in the
tight community of season-ticket holders learned something about each
other that they had not known before. The last few minutes of the game
were very difficult. The mood in the Forum had changed … on that
night, the Forum became a little more like the world outside.
(p. 25)
Montreal Canadiens versus Toronto Maple Leafs:
cultural or civic conflict?
With the relative unpopularity of ethnic nationalism in Western
democracies, Quebec politicians and intellectuals have insisted that they
practice an inclusive form of civic nationalism. Over much of the twentieth
century some 20 percent of the Quebec population was not French. This
group resides largely in Montreal and has often displayed a similar
connection to the Montreal Canadiens as their French Quebec counterparts.
The shared historic tie with the Montreal Canadiens between francophones
and anglophones suggests that while the former exhibited ethnic pride
directed at the team’s French players, there was also a shared civic
attachment that all Montrealers manifested towards the Habs which
transcended language differences. This civic pride in the Montreal
Canadiens is often neglected in the literature that examines Quebecers’
attachment to the team.
That attachment has long been given expression via the historic rivalry
between the Montreal Canadiens and the city of Toronto’s hockey team the
Maple Leafs. It was a microcosm for the broader competition between
Canada’s two biggest cities for the status as the country’s dominant
metropolis. As Daniel Ross (2015) points out: “Google ‘Toronto vs.
Montréal’ and 90 percent of the results you’ll get are about hockey. The
century old rivalry between fans of the Canadiens (Habs) and the Maple
Leafs is one of the longest and most heated in Canadian sports history”
(para. 5).
Over the last half of the twentieth century, while Montreal handily won
the on-ice competition with Toronto, off the ice Toronto increasingly


distanced itself from Montreal as the country’s economic epicenter. There
was certainly an English–French cultural dimension to the rivalry between
the majority English language city of Toronto and the predominantly French
language city of Montreal. But when it comes to hockey, English
Montrealers clearly prefer the Montreal Canadiens over Toronto’s team
despite sharing the same language with most Torontonians.
When surveyed in June 2019, some 37 percent of Montreal’s English
population regarded the Montreal Canadiens as a very important marker of
identity compared with 17 percent of English Montrealers that believe the
Toronto Maple Leafs hockey team is a very important marker of identity
(Leger Marketing 2019). Olivier Bauer told the Canadian Press (2009) that
he believes the Montreal Canadiens have played a role as a unifier and
social bond between all Montrealers. This view is supported by results from
the June 2019 survey of Canadians which reveals that six in ten French and
English Canadians regard the Montreal Canadiens hockey team as an
important marker of the country’s identity (Leger Marketing 2019).
The City of Montreal has frequently been at the center of Quebec
language tensions. In 1977 the government of Quebec adopted the Charter
of the French Language (Bill 101) which called for exterior commercial
signs to be in French only (the legislation was amended in 1993 to allow
English on exterior commercial signs as long as the French is visibly
predominant). But since the 1960s those languages rarely carried over to the
Montreal Forum (where the team played until 1996) or at the Bell Centre
(where they have since played). The Montreal Canadiens have pretty much
been insulated from the language tensions that take place outside of the
arena. As some observers point out, Montreal fans cheered in both English
and French, the hockey games often began with fans singing in French,
“Les Canadiens sont la” (the Canadiens are here), and defeated visiting
teams were taunted in English with the 1960s tune, “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss
Him Goodbye.” In the twenty-first century, the fans not only cheer in both
English and French but they have added the Spanish cheer “Ole-ole-ole”
following a goal scored by the home team. As an English Montreal fan
pointed out “if you grew up in Montreal, you had these deep, deep feelings
for this team and for its history … a real sense of pride and believing in
something” (Gibbs 2019, para. 7).
From 1924 to 1996, the Montreal Forum was the arena where the iconic
Montreal Canadiens secured the vast majority of their twentieth century


championships. On March 11, 1996, the Montreal Canadiens played their
first game in the new and larger Molson Centre (now the Bell Centre). Prior
to the opening face-off, there was a ceremony where three former
Canadiens team captains – Emile Bouchard, Maurice Richard, and Jean
Béliveau – passed a torch to the Molson Centre’s first team captain Pierre
Turgeon. But the successes enjoyed in the Montreal Forum have not
followed the team into the Molson Centre.
Montreal versus Quebec City: dividing loyalties on ice?
In 1979 the Montreal Canadiens monopoly over the hearts of French
Canadian hockey fans was put to the test when a new Quebec-based team
joined the National Hockey League (the team was first established in 1972
as part of what was called the World Hockey League – competitor to the
NHL). With the creation of the Quebec Nordiques, suddenly a competition
emerged with the Montreal Canadiens for the attention, interest, and more
importantly the commercial market of Quebec’s francophone hockey fans.
Indeed, the initial goal of the Nordiques was to model themselves after the
1970s version of the Montreal Canadiens and they thus enlisted mostly
francophone players from the minor leagues in order to fit in better with the
French culture of Quebec City – the province’s capital. As Montreal hockey
icon Jean Beliveau explained in his book My Life in Hockey, up to that
point, the province of Quebec was “exclusive Montreal Canadiens territory”
(THW Archives 2020, para. 11).
An underlying commercial rivalry was perhaps as important as the
eventual contest that emerged between the two Quebec-based hockey
teams. The Montreal Canadiens were owned by Molson breweries and the
Nordiques majority shareholders were their competition at the O’Keefe
Brewing Company. It was the support of O’Keefe that helped Quebec
City’s initial bid for entry into the NHL. But the Montreal Canadiens
ownership was clearly unhappy about the prospect that a rival company
would cut into some of their beer-drinking hockey fan base and used a veto
to block the Nordiques’ first attempt to join the NHL. That move created a
costly backlash and ensuing negative sentiment towards Montreal spread
from the province to the rest of Canada. Molson beer was threatened with
boycotts from fans inside and outside of Quebec. The whole thing proved to
be a public relations fiasco for the company. As a result, the Montreal


Canadiens ownership was forced to reverse their decision on the Nordiques
and endorse their entry into the NHL.
The Nordiques joined the NHL in 1979, at a particularly volatile political
time with a governing separatist party and a referendum on Quebec
sovereignty coming in the spring of 1980. From the outset some observers
believed the Quebec Nordiques sought to exploit rising nationalist
sentiment in the province during the 1980s and 1990s. The team’s uniforms
included eight fleur-de-lys, the nationalist symbol on the province of
Quebec’s flag. The Nordiques even hired the revered Maurice Richard as
their first coach (although he only stayed in that role for their first two
games). While the team was run by a supporter of Canadian unity – Marcel
Aubut – the Nordiques were identified as the team that was favorable to the
‘Yes’ side in the 1980 Quebec referendum on separation. For their part, the
Montreal Canadiens were associated with the opposition to Quebec
independence. But there were no real foundations for these associations as
the players understood that there was an unwritten rule about mixing
hockey with politics, especially when it came to what was widely seen as
Quebec’s most divisive political debate. When it came to conversations
about Quebec sovereignty/Canadian unity the hockey arena aimed at being
a politics-free zone.
Respected Canadian sports columnist Michael Farber likened the
Quebec–Montreal on-ice battle to a Russian doll. “Expose one layer of the
rivalry,” he said, “and another waited beneath” (Farber 1993, para. 9). He
pointed to what became a sort of pre-game ritual between the two teams
where the Nordiques coach would yell at the Montreal Canadiens coach
‘Tonight … we’re going to cut your head off.’ He concluded that the battle
was a “geopolitical-cultural-business-hockey knot” being played out in the
French language (Farber 1993, para. 9). The presence of the Nordiques was
at a crucial time in the history of the Montreal Canadiens, as the team was
undergoing a makeover with the decline of its French contingent and facing
a rival team seeking to carve out a part of the Quebec identity that for
decades seemed to be Montreal’s exclusive purview. Ultimately, the Quebec
market appeared too small to accommodate two professional hockey teams
and the rivalry ended in 1995 when the Quebec Nordiques were relocated to
Colorado. The Nordiques’ remaining fan base again made the Montreal
Canadiens their preference. But the team that sought to reacquire their


loyalties was no longer the same as it was prior to the creation of the
Nordiques.
Montreal Canadiens: champs no more
By the 1980s, the growing obstacle to making the Montreal Canadiens a
source of national pride for Quebecers was that they stopped winning
championships. Over the course of that decade they won one championship
in 1986 and in the next decade, in 1993, they won their last one to-date. In a
2018 article entitled ‘No Dynasty Lasts Forever: The Long, Slow Decline
of the Montreal Canadiens,’ Paul Logothetis contends that the glory days of
the Habs appear to be gone for good.
Since the 1980s, the presence of American and European players in the
National Hockey League has increased. Canadian-born players once made
up 90 percent of the NHL league and at the start of the twenty-first century
declined to less than half. Harvey (2006) concludes: “Today for Quebecers,
hockey involves mixed and confused meanings” (p. 35), particularly true
for the Canadiens of Montreal, a club that has not been seen as ‘French’ for
more than 20 years.
The diversification of the Montreal Canadiens and their failure to win
championships has not deterred Quebec and Canadian politicians from
continuing to make references to the once legendary team. They generally
do so by appealing to Quebecers that can recall the team’s past glories and
thus in 2010 when the Canadiens enjoyed a strong season, it evoked the
idea of a possible resurgence of the winning ways. As the Montreal
Canadiens made the NHL playoffs in that year, the separatist Parti
Québécois (PQ) as leader of the opposition to the government drew a
parallel between the goal of making Quebec a sovereign country and the
Montreal Canadiens’ quest for the championship. Speaking to party
supporters, PQ leader Pauline Marois declared:
[T]he whole nation is vibrating in tune with a team of players who
were called too small, not talented enough, not proud enough to win …
I am talking about the Montreal Canadiens … today, like Quebecers, it
is because they played as a team, that they sacrificed themselves for the
team, that they can aspire to the highest honour.
(Coyne 2010, para. 2)


Marois concluded that “when we have solidarity, determination, pride we
can succeed at everything, starting with the sovereignty of Quebec” (Coyne
2010, para. 2).
In response to Marois, a respected Canadian news columnist Andrew
Coyne (2010) highlighted the irony in the separatist leader pointing to the
Montreal Canadiens as a model for the sovereignist movement. After all,
they were ‘anglo’ owned with only three of the players on the 25-man roster
being from Quebec and the team operated in the English language. That did
not go unnoticed by supporters of Quebec’s independence though. As the
Montreal Canadiens incurred yet another failed attempt to win the
championship, a Parti Québécois parliamentarian Pierre Curzi complained
that only three francophone Quebecers played with the Montreal Canadiens,
which was part of a federalist conspiracy at work to keep Canada united.
Curzi insisted:
The people who are federalists and the people who don’t wish Quebec
to become a country, who don’t wish French to flourish, they know
very well that you must take over a certain number of symbols of
identity. And … I believe there’s been a taking possession by the
federal power over the [Montreal] Canadiens club.
(National Post 2010, para. 3)
The owner of the Montreal Canadiens, Geoff Molson, retorted that the team
was “in the hockey business and not into politics” (CBC News 2010, para.
7). He added that the team did not talk about politics in the dressing room
and it was talent not language that was the basis for acquiring players
including such francophones as Lapierre, Darche, and Pouliotthat, who
were playing with the team in 2010 (CBC News 2010).
While not endorsing Curzi’s theory, for her part, party leader Marois
lamented the lack of Quebec players with the Habs, “[This team is] a
symbol of our pride to succeed in this sport, and I think the Quebecers
would like to have more francophones in this team” (CBC News 2010,
para. 11). Marois’ view isn’t out of line with opinion amongst a significant
number of Quebec francophones. A 2015 national survey reveals that nearly
eight in ten French Quebecers agree that the Montreal Canadiens should
have a minimum percentage of Quebec-born players, a view that is shared
by only two in ten English Quebecers. The difference is considerably less


pronounced in regard to the perceived talent of Quebec-born hockey players
with 49 percent of French and 41 percent of English Quebecers in
agreement that the best Canadian players come from their home province
(Leger Marketing 2015).
Quebecers still share this belief despite the fact that the Montreal
Canadiens have not secured a championship since 1993. The 2010 ACS-
Leger survey on hockey and identity reveals that some 48 percent of
Quebecers hold that view compared with 28 percent of Ontarians who feel
the best players come from their province. While that view may be in part
motivated by ethnic pride on the part of the Quebec’s French population,
the survey reveals that it is also the opinion of a significant share of
Quebec’s English population. Quebec francophones and anglophones
follow the sport to roughly the same extent. The ACS-Leger survey does
point to a rather substantial divergence with French Quebecers, who are far
more likely than their English compatriots in believing that there are not
enough Canadian-born players in professional hockey (Leger Marketing
2010).
Patoine (2015) wonders whether in the current context of hockey, the
Montreal Canadiens can still be regarded as a symbol of French Canadian
pride or rather a modern, globalized, multi-ethnic team that is morphing
into the symbol of a Quebec-style multicultural nation? Surveys reveal that
there is little difference in the degree to which Canada’s francophones,
anglophones, and allophones respectively regard hockey to be an important
part of their national identity. Some 50 percent of each language group
concur that hockey is a very important part of the country’s national identity
with another 40 percent adding that it is somewhat important (Leger
Marketing 2010).
While many Quebecers might like to return to the era when they secured
the finest Quebec talent, it seems that star francophone hockey players born
in the province no longer dream of playing with the Montreal Canadiens.
The team no longer holds the same allure for many of today’s players who
appear as, if not more, attracted to teams that most value their performance
and do so by offering the highest salaries for their services.
Former Montreal Canadiens player Serge Savard observed that, “it’s not
a very healthy situation. All the best players who want to play here … leave
town” (Logothetis 2018, para. 9). A long-time executive with the Montreal
Canadiens, Savard along with other former Montreal Canadiens retired stars


were tasked with passing on their experience and knowledge to the new
players. But with the passing of several of the iconic Montreal Canadiens
players that tradition has been difficult to sustain. As one former Montreal
Canadiens team captain Max Pacioretty observed:
It’s something the organization wants to do better and hasn’t done that
good of a job with is bringing the alumni around more often and
interacting with the players and talking about their history and legacy
and how their teams were.
(Logothetis 2018, para. 11)
In the end the American-born Pacioretty (now with the franchise in Las
Vegas) said that it was something he had to learn on his own.
Hockey’s new challenge: staying ahead of other sports
If hockey is dominant in Canada over other sports, it is in large measure
explained by its roots in the country’s history, in the important degree to
which the sport is played and watched by Canadians, and the international
success the country has enjoyed in the sport. Canadian writer Douglas
Fisher once said that hockey is “ultimately woven in our Canadian self-
image and our mythology” (House of Commons 1994, sect. 3595).
But in the twenty-first century the challenge for the predominance of ice
hockey in Quebec and elsewhere in Canada is the growing attraction to
other professional sports. On television, radio, and in the newspapers in
January 2003 nearly three in ten Canadians surveyed by Environics said
they follow hockey most often, placing it ahead of any other sport but not
securing the majority of the audience (Jedwab 2003). When it comes to the
sports that Canadians follow, Kenny (2009) recounts that sociologist
Reginald Bibby finds it to be an exaggeration that Canadians live or die by
the National Hockey League.
A survey conducted for the Association for Canadian Studies in 2019
asked respondents to identify the first three choices in the sports that they
watched on TV or listened to on the radio as teenagers and adults
respectively. The survey revealed that while the majority of Canadians
watched/listened to hockey broadcasts as teenagers, the percentage that did
so declined as they reached adulthood from 59 percent to 49 percent. Other


sports also saw reductions in their respective followings from the teen to
adult years but the share that watched/listened to basketball rose from 25
percent that reported watching it as teens to 29 percent that did so as adults
(Leger Marketing 2019).
In fairness, 2019 was an exceptional year for basketball as the sole
Canadian team in the National Basketball Association (NBA) won its first
ever championship after some 25 years in the league. The NBA’s Toronto
Raptors caught the attention of many Canadians who have embraced the
team that has successfully branded itself with the popular slogan “We the
North.” Indeed the 2019 survey also reveals that more Canadians see the
Toronto Raptors as a source of pride in the country (60 percent) than they
do the Montreal Canadiens (51 percent). But Quebecers still are more likely
to the see the Montreal Canadiens (61 percent) as a greater source for the
country than the Toronto Raptors (43 percent) (Leger Marketing 2019).
The 2019 ACS survey provides strong evidence for the rising popularity
of basketball as it reveals that an important minority of Ontarians (the
province where the 2019 NBA champion Toronto Raptors play) have made
basketball their preferred sport. Overall some 16 percent of Ontarians say
that basketball is the sport that they follow most often compared with 22
percent that say it is hockey. While overall hockey remains the most
popular, its dominance does not appear to be secure. At 34 percent in
Quebec, hockey remains well ahead of other sports when people are asked
what they follow most often. The second sport most often followed by
Quebecers is soccer at 7 percent with basketball followed most often by a
mere 2 percent (Leger Marketing 2019).
As the Montreal Canadiens have seen an important diversification in the
composition of the team’s players over the past four decades, the city of
Montreal has become increasingly multiethnic and multiracial owing to
significant variation in the source countries of immigration. Many of the
newcomers come from countries where there is less familiarity with and/or
affinity to ice hockey. Persons of non-European origins – referred to in
Canada as visible minorities – are not well represented on professional ice
hockey teams, which makes for a fast-growing segment of the Canadian
population that are unable to identify teams that offer them role models.
The shifting demographics in Canada may increasingly favor sports like
soccer with its important presence of non-Europeans. Those in the business


of marketing hockey in Canada are surely paying close attention to these
trends.
Currently, the diverse group of players in the Montreal Canadiens and
their shift away from the French Canadian/Québécois-dominated roster
make it difficult to use them as some lever to bolster pride in Quebec. The
Quebec nationalist movement and the segment of it that favors separation
from Canada have often struggled with attracting immigrants and their
children to their cause. But neither the Montreal Canadiens nor the sport of
hockey currently offer meaningful opportunities to unite Quebecers around
a shared passion that could translate into some form of Quebec nation
building that will unite the province’s diverse linguistic and cultural groups.
The once ‘glorious/les glorieux’ Montreal Canadiens do not offer much to
bolster pride in the country, nor, however, should they.
Conclusion
Changfoot and Cullen (2011) contended that electorally, Quebec
sovereignty aspirations waned since the start of the twenty-first century.
With a relatively brief exception, from 2003 to 2018 Quebec has been
governed by the federalist provincial Liberal Party. In the 2018 Quebec
election, the Liberals were defeated by a nationalist party – the Coalition
Avenir Quebec – that to date has manifested little interest in separation from
Canada. At present, opinion surveys put support for Quebec sovereignty at
between 30 and 35 percent. Quebec’s non-francophones remain staunchly
opposed to Quebec’s separation from Canada and the issue gets relatively
little uptake in the media. As one of Quebec’s leading pollsters has
observed “identity politics are still fertile ground in Quebec … a majority of
Quebecers aren’t satisfied with Quebec’s constitutional relationship with
Canada and they want more economic and provincial powers. But they
don’t want independence” (Bilefsky 2019, para. 16). With its followers
across all ages and backgrounds, the hockey nation in Canada has always
been a greater source of unity than is the political entity within which it
finds itself. And the members/citizens of Canada’s hockey nation generally
like to ward off the potentially toxic influence of politics for their passion.
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Index
Page numbers in italics denote figures.
Abdullah, Muhammad Jafar 171–172
Abkhazia 186, 191
Abrisketa, González 90–92
Adeh, Lumumba Dah 211
Adekoya, Remi 209
Air Passenger Duty (APD) 48–49
Akinjide, Richard 202–203
All-Ireland (Gaelic) football championship 26
Al-Shahbaz Cricket Club, Larkana (Pakistan) 182
Amedspor football club 154
Americanization, concept of 2
Amnesty International 162
An Gárda Siochána 26
Antall, Imre 144
anti-EU ‘Leave’ campaign 39
anti-Spain Basque nationalist 96
Antwerp Olympic Games (1920) 89, 94, 116
Arabo-Islamic Algerian identity 191
Arab Spring 187, 196
Arhan, Faruk 157–158
assemblage, concept of 192
Athletic Club de Bilbao 9, 12, 88, 117
Athletic femenino 19, 100
athletic performance 10
Aubut, Marcel 244
Auld Enemy 41–42
Awolowo, Obafemi 203, 206
Azikiwe, Nnamdi 203, 212
Balarabe, Aisha Mohammed 210


Balewa, Abubakar Tafawa 203–204
banal nationalism 11–12; concept of 73–74, 187; sport as a metaphor for unity and a source of 73–75;
strategy of 79
Bannockburn, battle of (1314) 41, 47
Barcelona Olympic Games (1992) 11, 111–113; lifelong bragging rights to Catalans 13
Basque Autonomous Community (BAC) 86, 97–98, 101; Statute of Autonomy 86
Basque Ball: Skin against Stone (2003) 92
Basque Country 85; Athletic Club 93, 97; Basque Nationalist Party (PNV) 86–87; Casco Viejo 90;
Club Deportivo de Bilbao 89; emergence of ETA 86–87, 96; English way 93–97; Industrial
Revolution 87; inter-village rivalry 90; ‘officialdom’ of Basque teams 85; political culture and
ideological dispositions 86; race, ethnicity, nationality, and territorial demarcation in soccer 97–
100; racial and ethnic distinctiveness of 87; regeneration of race 94; revolutionary tax 97; rural
ethos of sporting identities 87–90; rural sport contests involving animals 89; Spanish fury of
soccer 93–97; Team Euskadi 100; traditional sports 89, 90; valorizations of direct physical
strength 86
Basque Federation of Traditional Sports 85
Basque indarra, traits of 92, 94
Basque Korrika 10
Basque nationalism 96; nationalist movement 86; objectives of 85; PNV-style 87; and separatism 86–
87
Basque nationalist movement 86, 93, 108
Basque Nationalist Party 86–87, 93, 96, 97, 101
Basque–Spanish relations, in sports: anti-Spain Basque nationalist 96; on Basque nationalism and
separatism 86–87; between lions and foxes 90–93; pelota (squash-like game) 90–91; political
relationships 86; revolutionary tax 98; signing of Bixente Lizarazu (1996–7) 98; Spanish Fury of
soccer and 93–97; ‘tug of war’ of nationalism 85
batelerak 90
Bauer, Olivier 242
Becze, Tihamér 150
Beijing Olympics (2008) 19
Belgian: identity 69, 74–77, 80; monarchy 73, 75, 76; nationalism 74, 80; nationalist discourse 74,
80; nationality 75, 80; National Olympic Committee (BOC) 72; Olympic and Interfederal
Committee (BOIC) 72
Bello, Aderonke 211
Benjamin, Walter 105
Berlin Olympic Games (1936): boycott of 1; as Hitler’s Olympics 1
Berlin Wall, fall of (1989) 144
‘Better Together’ campaign 49
Bhutto, Zulfikar Ali 177–178, 180
Biafran War (1967–1970) 6, 200–201, 205–206; British influence on 205; ‘Igbo Coup’ of January
1966 205; impact on sport of separation 210–212; Middle East Six Day War (1967) 205; Nigerian
strikes against civilian targets 205; ‘One Nigeria’ solution 205; policies of marginalization 206;
results of 206–207; slaughter of the Igbos 208
Bizkaitarra 94
Black March of Marosvásárhely (1990) 141
Blair, Tony 46
body–value linkages 10
Boko Haram 208–209
Bora, Tanıl 157, 159, 167
Botella, Ana 111


bourgeois capitalism 87
Boyle, Danny 48
Bozarslan, Hamit 155
Bracken, J.K. 26
Brande, Luc Vanden 73
Braveheart (1995) 41
Breffni Park, Cavan, Ireland 26
Brexit 7, 40, 55, 64
British Army 25, 28
British colonial amalgamation of Nigeria 6
British Empire 45
British footballmens 93
British God Save the Queen 11
British identity 64
British sports 25, 31, 58, 63, 97
Bruce, Robert 41
Brundage, Avery 1, 219
Buhari, Mohammed 208–209
Cairo Declaration (1943) 220
Caledonian Antisyzgy 43
Campbell, Clarence 237
Canada: Charter of the French Language (Bill 101) 242; Flying Frenchmen 237; French Canadian
identities 240; from French Canadian to Quebec nationalism 238–241; goal of Quebec
independence 237, 239; language and cultural conflicts 237; language conflicts 237; Montreal
Canadiens and French Canadian nationalism 237–238; Montreal Forum 241–242; National
Basketball Association (NBA) 248; national sports in 236; Parti Québécois (PQ) 241, 245;
Quebec’s National Union party 238; referendums for Quebec sovereignty 236, 244; rioting in
Montreal 238; struggle for equality between French and English Canadians 238; Toronto Raptors
248
Canadian Broadcasting Corporation 236
Canadian ice hockey: anglophone and francophone players 237; between Canada and the Soviet
Union 241; challenge of staying ahead of other sports 247–249; Club Canadien (Club de Hockey
Canadien) 237; dividing loyalties in 243–244; English–French cultural dimension to rivalry 242;
ethnic pride 242; geopolitical-cultural-business-hockey knot 244; Google ‘Toronto versus
Montréal 242; Montreal Canadiens a source of national pride for Quebecers 244–247; Montreal
Canadiens versus Toronto Maple Leafs 241–243; Montreal versus Quebec City 243–244;
National Hockey League (NHL) 237, 240, 243, 245; as national sports 236; Quebec Nordiques
243–244; Quebec’s francophone hockey fans 243
Carrère, Michel 123
Carrier, Roch 238
Carroll, Stephen 22
cartoons, of Muslim Prophet Muhammad 208
Catalan National Day (Diada) 112
Catalonia: Barcelona Games (1992) 111–113; Catalan identity 105; Catalan Renaixença (1840s–
1880s) 107–109; Catalan Statute of Autonomy 86; Català pro Esport Popular 109; Catholic
agenda of the dictatorship 110; Federación Cultural Deportiva Obrera 109; Furia Española
(Spanish national team) 109; Homage to Catalonia (1938) 109; human towers (castells) 105, 107,
110–111, 113, 120; independence movement 107; Industrial Revolution 107–108; issues of
identity and economy 113; nationalism 105, 112; nationalist movement 108; nation-building


mechanisms 107; Olympic Committee of Catalonia COC 115; paz olímpica (“Olympic peace”)
112; physical education for women 110; playing for Spain 115–117; politics toward the idea of
independence 114; process of gentrification 108; Salud y Cultura 109; sardana dance 107, 113;
schadenfreude 111; Sección Femenina 110; secessionism, issue of 111; Second Spanish Republic
(1931–1939) 107–109; selfish capitalist accumulators 107; separation of Catalan athletes under a
Catalan flag 112; Spanish national anthem 117–119; sport for “Yes” 113–115; sport under Franco
(1939–1975) 109–111; state–region relations 107; use of folklore and performance 107; whistling
Spain 117–119
Catholic Church 25, 29
Celtic Football Club 35
Centre of the French Overseas Territories 124
cesta punta, idea of 93
Chang-chun, Liu 219, 223
Chen, Shu-bian 230–231
Chen, Yi 220
Chiang, Kai-shek 220, 223
Chien-liang, Lin 230
China National Amateur Athletic Federation (CNAAF) 219, 223
China: Cairo Declaration (1943) 220; civil war 220, 223; cultural lineage of the Middle Kingdom
221; Cultural Revolution 221; Far Eastern Champions Games (1913) 222; First Sino-Japanese
War 220; “one China” issue (1912–1949) 222–223; “One China, One Taiwan” policy 221;
participation in Olympics Games 219; Shimonoseki, Treaty of 220; sport nationalism 223–224;
sports relationship with Taiwan see China–Taiwan sports relationship; “two China” issue (1949–
1981) 223–226; Vietnam War 221; Xinhai Revolution (1912) 219
China–Taiwan sports relationship 219; ben-shen-jen versus wai-shen-jen rivalry 233; under Japanese
colonization 221; rising of Taiwan consciousness and 229–232; sport nationalism 221–224, 233;
Ta Lu Hsuan Shuo 227
Chinese nationalism 19, 221
Chinese Olympic Committee (COC) 224, 226
Chinese Taipei see Taiwan
Chinese Taipei Olympic Committee 226, 228, 232
Churchill, Winston 220
civic nationalism 8, 241
Cliftonville Football Club 32, 35
Cliftonville Red Skins 36
collective nobility 100
Commonwealth Games: dualistic symbolism of 40, 51; at Glasgow (2014) 14, 40, 47–48; political
symbolism of 45
Communist Party of China (CPC) 226
CONIFA (Confederation of Independent Football Associations) World Football Cup 9–10, 16, 186–
195
Connolly, James 29–30, 36
Corsica: Action for the Renaissance of Corsica (ARC) 127–128; affiliation to FIFA 122; anti-French
character 122; Bastia–Nice match 129; Bastia–Troyes match 129; Corsican and French identity
123–126; Corsican Football League 125; emergence of neo-nationalism 126–128; football and
neo-nationalism 128–132; French amateur clubs 123; Hudson Report (1972) 127; nationalist
movement 122; National Liberation Front of Corsica (FLNC) 128, 130; from political second
best to ideological commitment 128–132; Regional Action Programme 124, 126; “Round Table”
of Montélimar 125
Coyne, Andrew 245


cricket 27, 42; as English game 10, 54, 62–64; Indus Valley Cricket team 172; in Ireland 25; in
Pakistan 9, 171–173, 176, 179–183
Csíkszereda Sportklub 9, 135, 138, 145
cultural genocide, threat of 54
cultural nationalism 3, 42
culture loss, fears of 8–9
Curzi, Pierre 245–246
Cusack, Michael 25
de Gaulle, Charles 195
Democratic Alliance of Hungarians in Romania (DAHR) 141, 144
democratic deficit 7, 44, 46–49
de Oñaz, Martínez 91
de Unamuno, Migel 92
Dryden, Ken 241
Dungiven Gaelic Athletic Club 29–30
Duplessis, Maurice 238
Duran, Ragıp 156
Easter Rising (1916) 27, 29, 31, 34
East Pakistan, secession of 7
Edinburgh Agreement (2014) 14, 39, 47
El Confidencial 93
elite sports: commercialisation of 60, 65; commodification of 60, 65
emancipatory nationalism 105
Enahoro, Anthony 206
EnglandandCardiff 61
EnglandandWales 54, 61
England and Wales Cricket Board (ECB) 63
Erste Liga (Romanian national league) 145
España de las Autonomías 6
ETA (Basque secessionist organization) 8, 12
ethnic brotherhood, notion of 9
ethnic intermarriages 142
ethnicized recruitment policies 10
ethnonationalism 7, 15
European Free Alliance (EFA) 190
European Union (EU) 64, 145
Euskal Herria 97–98, 101
Farber, Michael 244
Far Eastern Champions Games (1913) 222
FC Barcelona 9, 12, 88, 104, 108–110, 114, 116–119, 118
Federation Internationale de Football Association (FIFA): Football World Cup 14, 59, 186, 187;
League of Wales 63
female domesticity, ideal of 108
Fenians see Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB)
FIBA Asia Champions Cup (2016) 17
Flemish: identity 68, 73, 77–79; movement 8, 71–72, 77, 79–80; nationalism 72, 78, 80
Flemish sport and secessionism: adoption of the 1977 decree 72; antidemocratic racist party 70;
Belgian Cats 74; Belgian monarchy and 75; Belgian Tornados 74; centre-right conservative party


70; claims for autonomy 70; driver and inhibitor for 80; Flemish and Francophone ‘wings’ 72;
Flemish–Catalan match 80; Flemish Football Association 72; Flemish Lion (Lion flag) 68;
Flemish Paradox 5, 69; Flemish Swimming Union 72; Flemish Tennis Federation 72; historical
and institutional background of 70–73; instrumentalisation for purposes of 77–80;
instrumentalisation of sport for unionist purposes 73–77; issue of separatism 5, 8; judo team 73;
mitigation of 73–75; national football team 78; National Institute for Physical Education
(NILOS-INEPS) 71; nationalist political parties 77–79; New Flemish Alliance 69–70; Red Devils
69, 74, 78; Red Lions 74; and regional identity 71; Ronde van Vlaanderen (Tour of Flanders) 68;
socio-economic issues regarding 71; sport governing bodies 76–77; struggle for emancipation 68;
Topsport Flanders 2002 73; Vlaams Belang (Flemish Interest) 69–70; Vlaanderen 2002 – Eddy
Merckx 73
Flemish sport federations 72, 79
football: Africa Cup of Nations tournament 210–211; Corsica’s affiliation to FIFA 122; FIFA see
Federation Internationale de Football Association (FIFA); Football Association of Wales 63;
influence in Nigeria 200; Kurdish political identity with 154–155; by militants of “stateless
nations” 122; politicisation of 167; race, ethnicity, nationality, and territorial demarcation in 97–
100; Spanish Fury of soccer 93–97; Spanish League 96; Turkish Süper Lig (Super League) 155
Football Association of Ireland (FAI) 30–32
Football Association of Wales 30, 63
football clubs, in England 32
Football Sports Weekly 31
Forlán, Diego 98–99
Foundation for the Defense of the Spanish Nation (Denaes) 118
French Algeria 123
French Amateur Championship (CFA) 123–124
French Canadian identity 5
French Revolution 125
French territories, de-colonization of 7
Friedan, Betty 108
Fulani Herdsmen 208
Funar, Gheorghe 140, 150
Furia Española (Spanish national team) 109
fútbol femenino 100
fuzzy frontiers 4, 58, 64
Gaddafi, Muammar 180
Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) 9, 22; effect of Partition on 27; football and the Irish national
question 30–32; founding of 25; and Irish secessionism 24–29; mono-culturalism 28; Northern
Irish delegates 29; role in Northern Ireland 27; Rule 21 of 28; Rule 42 of 28; Ulster Council of
26; vigilance from the British state 26
Gaelic games movement 3, 26; development of 29; policing of 26; rivalry between the Ulster
counties 26
Gál, Sándor 135, 147
game’s agonic disposition, duality of 92
gender segregation 111
gimnasios 108–109
Glasgow Commonwealth Games (2014) 40, 47
global financial crisis of 2007–2008 47
Global Terrorism Index 208
Goiri, Sabino Arana 86


Goodell, Charles 205
Good Friday Agreement (1998) 23
Gorbachevian perestroika 144
goulash communism 143
Grand Prix 187
Great Britain & Northern Ireland (GB&NI) 59, 62
gross value added (GVA) 115
group of death 62
Guerrero, Julen 88
Gul, Aftab 180–181
Hardie, James Keir 43
Harvey, Jean 239
Heffron, Peadar 22
Helsinki Olympics (1952) 226
Herri Kirolak 85, 88
Hezim, Erfan 17
Hockey: A People’s History 236
Hong Kong–China relations 17
Hong Kong Football Association (HKFA) 18
Hong Kong Special Administrative Region (SAR) 17
Hoy, Chris 49–50
Human Rights Watch 141, 208
Hungarian identity 137, 147
Hungarian–Romanian relations 135; on agency, identity, and globalization 151–152; bilingualism
141; Black March of Marosvásárhely (1990) 141; blood on the ice 148–151; Ceauşescu-era and
beyond 148–151; under communist Ceauşescu regime (1965–1989) 141; Csíksomlyó Express
138; Csíksomlyó Pilgrimage 149; Csíkszereda Sportklub 135, 145; Day of a Thousand Szekler
Maidens folk festival 138; dual citizenship for ethnic Hungarians 138; Erste Liga (Romanian
national league) 145; ethnic intermarriages 142; ethnic tensions 141; festive reunion of Hungarian
brotherhood 138; Hungarian-language opera performance 140; “Hungarianness” of Szeklers 137;
Kolozsvár 139; Magyar Autonomous Region 143; Marosvásárhely 140–141; Minority
Protections Treaty (1919) 142; place myths of Transylvania 137–139; on politics and questions of
Szekler autonomy 142–145; on Romania and Szekler ethnic identity 143; Second Vienna Award
143; Szekler bravado 141; Szekler counties within Romania 136, 137; Szekler hockey between
two states 145–147; Szekler national anthem 139; Szekler National Council 135, 143;
Transilvanianist Movement of the 1920s 143; Trianon Treaty (1920) 135, 142
ice hockey 237; in Canada see Canadian ice hockey; Szeklers’ approach to 145; violence in
Romanian League final (2000) 150; World Hockey League 243
Igbo Youths Movement 208
Ikurrina 12, 79, 85
imagined community 10, 59, 231
Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) 201, 209
Industrial Revolution 87, 107–108
Indus Valley Cricket team 172
International Association of Athletics Federations (IAAF) 225
International Exhibition of Art and Technology (1937), Paris 124
International Football Association Board 30
International Olympics Committee (IOC) 1, 111, 219
international tourism markets 64


IRA’s Dublin Brigade 31
Ireland: All-Ireland football championship 26; British rule in 25; Civil War (1922–1923) 27, 29;
Easter Rising (1916) 27, 29, 31; Football Association of Ireland (FAI) 30–32; Gaelic Athletic
Association (GAA) see Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA); history of sport in 24; Home Rule
30; independence of 29–30; Leinster Regiment Cup 25; nationalism, idea of 3, 24, 27; national
sport of 32; political and sporting implications 25; political developments of the peace process
29; political life in 25; Republican Hunger Strikes (1981) 28; sport and peace in 33–34; sports in
25, 29–30; unification of 29–30, 34; urbanisation in 25; War of Independence (1919–1921) 29;
see also Northern Ireland
Irish Citizen Army (ICA) 29
Irish Football Association (IFA) 30
Irish Free State 9, 23, 25–27, 30
Irish League 32
Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB) 25–26
Irish republicanism 23–24, 31–32, 36
Irun Foot-Ball Club 93
‘It’s Scotland’s Oil’ campaign 44
jageerdari (feudalism) 178
James, C.L. R 184
Jiang, Zemin 228
Johnson, Lyndon B. 221
Jones, Carwyn 63
kabaddi 179
Kabyle: Amazigh activism 190; Amazigh diaspora in France 190; Amazigh Movement 191;
assembling the diasporic nation 192–196; banal nationalism 187; Berber Spring 190, 192; Black
Spring 190; CONIFA World Football Cup (2018) 186, 188, 189–192; diaspora institutions 186;
diaspora, sport and nationalism 187–189; geopolitics of diaspora 192; geopolitics of sport 187;
‘groupness’ of the diaspora 189, 194; Independence Movement 186; international sporting events
187; Jeunesse Sportive de Kabylie (JSK) 189–190; Memorandum for the Independence of
Kabylia 195; mobilisation of diaspora communities 189; national identity 5; nationhood 189;
projection of power beyond borders 188; representation of 193; self-determination of 186
Kabyle identity 194
Kabylie Indépendant (Independent Kabylia) 193
Kanu, Nnamdi 209
Kardar, A.H. 180
kayyum (state-appointed trustee) 165
Keçiciler, Mehmet 159
Kennedy, John F. 221
Kerr, Ronan 22
Khan, Adeel 178
Khan, Imran 183
Kılavuz, Metin 154
Kontxako Estropada 90
Koso, Javed 15
Kovács, István 146
Kurdish Diyarbakırspor football club 11, 154, 157–161
Kurdish identity 9, 11, 155, 157, 160, 166–168, 167
Kurdish movement 5, 9, 11, 156, 166
Kurdish political movement 155–159, 161, 165–167


Kurdistan Workers’ Party 154
Kurds and football in Turkey 154; Amedspor football club 9, 15, 154–155, 161–166, 167–168;
declaration of ‘PKK raus’ 156; DİSKİspor 161; Diyarbakır Belediyespor club 161; Diyarbakır
Metropolitan Belediyespor 161; Diyarbakır Metropolitan Municipality 155; Diyarbakırspor–
Altay match 159; Diyarbakırspor Supporters Union Association 163; Herne Peş march 158;
Independence March 158; Islamist Welfare Party (Refah Partisi) 161; Kurdish Diyarbakırspor
football club 11, 154, 157–161, 164, 167; Kurdish political identity with football 154, 157, 160;
‘Kurdish team’ identity 159; ‘officially favoured team’ title 159; Peoples’ Democratic Party 155,
158; People’s Labour Party 155; political movement and 155–156, 158–159, 161, 165;
politicisation of 167; professional league 161; Resistance group 165; Revolutionary Patriotic
Youth Movement 162; Sakaryaspor–Amedspor match 166; sphere of 155–157; and strategy of
the ‘Democratisation of Turkey’ 161; Trabzonspor football club 156; Turkish Cup 162; Turkish
Football Federation 154, 158, 164; Turkish nationalism and 160; Werder Bremen–Galatasaray
match 156
la manera inglesa 94
Larkin, James 29
Lawal, Garba 211
League of Nations 143
League of Wales 63
Leinster Regiment Cup (Ireland) 25
Lennon, John 206
Liang-kuei, Chiang 225
Little League World Series 226
Lizarazu, Bixente 96, 98
local sporting talents 10
London Olympic Games (2012) 16, 40, 47, 62–63
Los Angeles Olympics (1932) 220
Los Angeles Olympics (1984) 226
Lugard, Frederick 201–202, 213
Lundy, Colin 28
Lynch, Kevin 29, 33
MacAlpin, Kenneth 40
McClean, James 32
McConnell, Lord 48
Mahmood, Zahid 182–183
Makhija, Naoomal Jeoomal 171–172
Malakhro (Malh) wrestling 179
Mao, Zedong 220
Marois, Pauline 245–246
Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC), England 171
Mehenni, Ferhat 190–191, 195–196
Melbourne Olympics (1956) 224
Mellows, Liam 29
Messi, Lionel 96
Mezey, Imre 149
Minority Protections Treaty (1919) 142
Mirani, Muhammad Suleman 182
Molson, Geoff 246
Montreal Canadiens hockey team 11, 239, 242


Montreal Olympics Games (1976) 225
Morey, Daryl 18
Movement for the Actualization of the Sovereign State of Biafra (MASSOB) 207
Murray, Andy 50
Muyters, Philippe 78
Nagoya Resolution 225
Nagy, Attila 139, 151
Naki, Deniz 164–165, 167
national fitness 10
nationalist symbolism, use of 45, 107, 244
National Liberation Front of Corsica (FLNC), Corsica 12, 128
national re-territorialization, strategies for 10
national sovereignty 3
nation-state representatives 10
Nazi Germany 143
Nigeria: administration of sports in 210; Africa Cup of Nations tournament 210–211; agitation for
Biafra 207; Boko Haram 208–209; British complicity, amalgamation and a forced marriage 201–
203; Civil War in see Biafran War (1967–1970); Colony and Protectorate of Southern Nigeria
201–202; criticisms of the forced marriage 203; ethno-linguistic groups in 202; Federal Ministry
of Sports 210; football’s influence in 200–201, 210; Fulani Herdsmen 208; Hausa/Fulani tribe
201; Igbo Youths Movement 208; Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) 201, 209; military coup
d’état in 204; Movement for the Actualization of the Sovereign State of Biafra (MASSOB) 207;
National Sports Federations (NSFs) 210; Northern Nigeria Protectorate 201; pogrom against Igbo
tribe 208; political and economic policies 207; ranking in United Nations’ Human Development
Index 209; reasons for the new demands for Biafra 208–209; religious clashes between Christians
and Muslims 208; secessionist movements in 204–205; tribalization of the coup 204; violence
against publication of cartoons of Prophet Muhammad by Danish newspaper 208; Zik Athletic
Club 212
‘90-minute patriots’ 12
nobility, Basque notions of 92
North Cyprus 186
Northern Ireland: Belfast Metropolitan Area Plan 33; Community Relations Council of 34;
International Conflict Transformation Centre 33; ‘national’ sports stadium for 33; Peace Process
34; preliminary plans for the new stadium 33; Probation Board for 34; Regional Development
Strategy 33; relationship between sport and politics in 33; rural/urban divide 36; sport and peace
in 33–34; Strategic Investment Board (SIB) 33; support for English football teams 35
Obasanjo, Olusegun 205
Öcalan, Abdullah 154, 156
Office of the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) 162
Official Report of the Organizing Committee for the Games of the XVI Olympiad Melbourne, The
(1956) 224
Okala, Emmanuel 210
Okkan, Gaffar 155, 157, 158, 159, 167
Old Firm 12
Omokri, Reno 208
“One China, One Taiwan” policy 221
Orbán, Viktor 138
Osahgae, Eghosa 208
Özgür Gündem (newspaper) 156


Pacioretty, Max 247
Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) 171, 179; decision-making governing board 183
Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) 177
Pakistan Super League (PSL) 15, 172
Palijo, Rasool Bux 177
Palijo, Sahir 172–173, 179, 182
Paralympic Games 10, 54, 62–63
Partition of Ireland (1921) 6
Partiya Karkerên Kurdistanê (PKK) see Kurdistan Workers’ Party
Patoine, Tony 237
Pearse, Patrick 29
pelota (squash-like game) 90–92
pelota frontons 94
Perrault, Gilbert 240
physical education, for women 110
physical fitness 10
Picas, Nuria 116
ping pong diplomacy 180
Plastic Brits 64
Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI) 22
Pope Francis 138
Power, John Wyse 26
Pujol, Jordi 109
Quebec Nordiques 11, 243
Quebec referendum, on separation 236, 244
Québécois identity 5
Radio Televisión Española 118
Ráduly, Róbert Kálmán 144
Ramalho, Jonás 99
Ranji Jarejo, Jam 171
Real Madrid 12, 58, 88, 104, 109, 212
Real Sociedad 12, 93, 96
Regional Action Plan (France) 8, 126
repressed nationalism, in sports 44
revolutionary tax 97–98
Richard, Maurice 237–240, 244
Rio Olympic Games (2016) 59
Romanian Hearth Union 141, 150
Romanian Hockey Federation 14, 145, 150–151
Romanian nationalism 150
Romanian Revolution 7, 144
Roonjho, G.M. 171–172
Roosevelt, Franklin 220
Ross, Daniel 242
“Round Table” of Montélimar 125
Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) 26
Royal Spanish Football Federation (RFEF) 115
Rubie, C.B. 172


rugby: as classless game 65; England versus Wales match 62; importance in Welsh identity 58–59;
professionalisation of 59; Rugby World Cup (RWC) 13, 56, 60; Visit England promotional
campaign 61; Welsh Rugby Union 62
rural/urban divide 36
Sadi, Dahiru 211
Salmond, Alex 46, 48
Sands, Bobby 33
Savard, Serge 247
Scotland: 90-minute patriots 45, 1707 Act of Union 40–42, 44; anti-EU ‘Leave’ campaign 39; Auld
Enemy 41–42; Bannockburn, battle of (1314) 41, 47; economic exploitation by England 44;
Edinburgh Agreement (2012) 14, 39, 47; electoral system of Westminster 44; exploits of Scottish
sportspeople in individual sports 44; failure in the 1978 FIFA World Cup 40, 46; ‘Five Nations’
competition 44; ‘holy trinity’ of independent Scottish civil society 42; ‘Home International’
football fixtures with England 44; Home Internationals 40; Home Rule Bill 43; incorporation into
the United Kingdom 40; ‘internal colonialism’ by England 44; ‘It’s Scotland’s Oil’ campaign 44;
Labour Party 44; nationalism of 41; National Party of Scotland (NPS) 43; origins of privileged
status of 42; Parliament elections 39, 47; political nationalism of 39, 43; referendum on Scottish
independence 55; restoration of political independence 40; ‘romantic’ cultural nationalism in 42;
Scottish National Party (SNP) 39, 43, 44, 48; Scottish Self-Government Party (SSGP) 43;
secessionist nationalism in 44; secessionist nationalist political movements in 43; sport and
secessionism in see Scotland, sport and secessionism in; as stateless nation 39; success over the
English forces at Stirling Bridge 41; uprising against English forces 41; Wars of Independence
41; ‘Yes-Yes’ campaign 46; York, Treaty of (1237) 40
Scotland, sport and secessionism in 40–50; anti-devolution campaign 46; ‘Better Together’ campaign
49; historical roots of the Scottish ‘nation’ in sport 40–43; impact of sport for securing 46;
politics of 51; in post-devolution period 46–50; ‘Sport for Yes’ campaign 50; in twentieth century
43–46; Year of Homecoming (2014) 47
Scottish ‘democratic deficit’ 7
Scottish Football Association 30
Scottish Home Rule Association 43
Scottish independence referendum (2014) 13
Sección Femenina 110
secessionist movements 2; complex and volatile 4–6; geo-political dislocations 6–7; legal, economic
and ideological considerations 7–8; multiplicity of identities 4
secessionist nationalism, politics of 51
Second Vienna Award 143
Şentürk, Semih 164
Shamrock Rovers 32
Sillars, Jim 12, 45
Simpson, Reg 172
Sindh (Pakistan): Al-Shahbaz Cricket Club, Larkana (Pakistan) 182; anti-Punjabi-Mohajir rhetoric
178; Awami Tahrik (People’s Movement) 177; Balochistan’s Quetta Gladiators 173; demographic
majoritarian status 178; development of cricket in 171; ethnic and sectarian conflicts 171; ethnic
identity 174; fight against feudalism 177; identity, language and politics in 173–175; identity
politics 178; Indus Valley Cricket team 172; kabaddi 179; Karachi Gymkhana ground 181;
Malakhro (Malh) wrestling 179; migration of Sindhi cricketers to India 181; Movement for
Restoration of Democracy (MRD) 178; nepotism, problem of 182; Pakistan Super League (PSL)
172; Pentagular Cricket Tournament (SPT) 172; political evolution of Sindhi nationalism 175–
179; Quaid-e-Azam Trophy 172; Ranji Trophy 171; selection processes in cricket 171; Sindh


Cricket Association 171–172; Sindh Hari Committee (Sindh Peasants’ Movement) 176; Sindhi
cricketers, in Pakistan national team 181–182; sport and Sindhi identity 179–181; winter
recreational activities and sports 179; Z.A. Bhutto Institute of Sports and Culture 180
Sinn Féin (Northern Ireland) 5, 22, 34; Good Friday Agreement (1998) 23; membership of 28;
position regarding policing 22
soccer see football
social justice 34
Soylu, Süleyman 154
Spanish Civil War (1936–1939) 87, 109
Spanish Fury 93–97, 114–115
Spanish League 96
Spanish Marcha Real 11, 118
Spanish nationalism 86
Spanish state sovereignty 105
split fever 15
‘Sport for Yes’ campaign 50
sporting excellence 12–15
sporting nationalism 12, 45
sport management 11
sport–nationalism relationship 1
sport rivalry 110
sports: cultural and political value of 180; geopolitics of 187; as metaphor for unity 73–75; as sites of
sub-national struggle 9–11; as source of banal nationalism 73–75; symbolic representations
through 12; symbolic struggles in 11–12; women’s discrimination in 19
sport stadiums 9–10
Sport Wales 57
state–region antagonisms 4
state–region relations 5
state sovereignty, deconstruction of 4
Stephens, James 29
Stoker’s Dracula 137
street fights (kale borroka) 93
Sümer, Çetin 160
Suna, Şeyhmuz 156
Sunday Times, The 28
Sun, Yat-sen 16, 219
Sunyol, Josep 108
Sütő, András 141
Syed, G.M. 176, 178
Szekler: identity 141, 145; National Council 135, 143; nationalism 143
Szeklerland Ice Hockey Academy 138–139, 152
Taiwan: anti-Communist movement 223; anti-Soviet movement 223; ben-shen-jen 229–230; Cairo
Declaration (1943) 220; China sovereignty over 220; Chinese Civil War 220, 223; Chinese Taipei
Olympic Committee 226; Chinese Television System (CTS) 226; distancing from China 221;
February 28, 1947 (the 228 Incident) uprising 220; Kuomintang (Chinese Nationalist Party, or
KMT) 220–221; Martial Law era (1946–1987) 221–222, 228; Nagoya Resolution 225; Olympic
Formula 226–229; Provincial Games 223; sport nationalism 223–224; sports relationship with
China see China–Taiwan sports relationship; “Taiwanization” of sport nationalism 221–222; Ta
Lu Hsuan Shuo 227; wai-shen-jen 229


Taiwanese: consciousness 221, 229–232; nationalism 221–222, 229–233
Talpur, Mir Hyder 182
Ta Lu Hsuan Shuo 227–228
Tarrida, Joan 111
Tőkés, László 144
Tokyo Olympics (2020) 210, 232
Torras, Rosa 108
Tour de France 58, 79, 187
Tour of Flanders (Ronde de Vlaandeeren) 10, 68, 79
Traditional Games of Ethnic Minorities 16
Transilvanianist Movement of the 1920s 143
Transylvania: Black March of Marosvásárhely (1990) 141; dual citizenship for ethnic Hungarians
138; ethnic Hungarian communities of 138, 143; Kolozsvár 140; Marosvásárhely 140–141;
Minority Protections Treaty (1919) 142; myth-producing role 137; place myths of 137; as
shrinking magyar világ “Hungarian world” 139–142; Szekler soul 138
Transylvania League 14, 151
Traynor, Oscar 31, 32
Trianon Treaty (1920) 135, 142, 144
Trudeau, Pierre Elliott 225, 241
Trump, Donald 209
Tudose, Mihai 144
Tugay, Ramazan 160, 163, 167
Tug of War International Federation 85
Turkish: Football Federation 154, 157–158, 164, 167; Independence March, by Kurds 11;
nationalism 160; Petroleum Corporation (TPAO) 168; Radio and Television Corporation (TRT)
159
Uche, Chibuike 205
UEFA Champions League 60
UEFA European Championship (1984) 14
UEFA European Championship (2020) 58
Ulster Council 26, 28
Ulster football championship 26
Ulusoy, Haluk 157
United Kingdom (UK): break-up of 55, 64; England and Wales Cricket Board (ECB) 63; ‘home
nations’ of 42; Labour Party 49; Scotland’s incorporation into 40
United Nations (UN): Human Development Index 209; Security Council 221
United States Institute of Peace (USIP) 208–209
Uniunea Vatra Românească see Romanian Hearth Union
Unrepresented Nations and Peoples’ Organisation (UNPO) 190
urban bourgeois sociality 108
urban war 162, 165
Uwazuruike, Ralph 207
Uzcudun, Paulino 89
Vákár, Lajos 139, 145, 148
Value Added Tax (VAT) 48–49
Van Grieken, Tom 69
Vergauwen, Steven 79–80
Vietnam War 221
Villacampa, Jordi 116


Voice of America 160
WalesandEngland 54, 61
Wales, sport and secessionism in: Act of Union (1536) 55; cricket 62; devolution of power 55;
England and Wales Cricket Board (ECB) 63; football 57–58; Great Western Cities alliance 62;
imagined community 59; League of Wales 63; national identity of 13, 56, 58–64;
professionalisation of rugby union 59; representatives of the national teams 55; Rugby Football
Union 61; Ryder Cup (2010) 64; sports culture 57–58; theoretical framework of 56–57; UEFA
Champions League 60; Visit England promotional campaign 61; World Cup qualifying
campaigns and 58
Wallace, William 41
War of Spanish Succession (1714) 104
Welsh national identity 13, 56, 58–64; building of Millennium Stadium 60, 62; complexities of 62–
64; hosting of international test cricket match 63; importance of rugby union to 58–59;
international sporting events 61; major sporting events and 59–62
Welsh Rugby Union 62
Western Mail 64
Westmoreland, Lord 25
Williams, Gwyn A. 58–59, 65
Williams, Raymond 54, 56, 65
Wilson, Harold 205
women’s discrimination in sport 19
World War: first 43, 135, 220; second 125, 141
xelebre (villager fond of paradox) 92
Xinhai Revolution (1912) 219
Xinjiang Flying Tigers 17
Xinjian Tianshan Leopard FC 17
Yeğen, Mesut 166
‘Yes Scotland’ campaign 50
York, Treaty of (1237) 40
Z.A. Bhutto Institute of Sports and Culture, Pakistan 180
Zarra, Telmo 96
Zik Athletic Club 212


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Indonesia and the Malay World
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Discrimination, sport and nation building among
Indonesian Chinese in the 1950s
Taufiq Tanasaldy & Catherine Palmer
To cite this article: Taufiq Tanasaldy & Catherine Palmer (2019) Discrimination, sport and
nation building among Indonesian Chinese in the 1950s, Indonesia and the Malay World,
47:137, 47-65, DOI: 10.1080/13639811.2019.1559564
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DISCRIMINATION, SPORT AND NATION BUILDING AMONG
INDONESIAN CHINESE IN THE 1950s
Taufiq Tanasaldy and Catherine Palmer
ABSTRACT
This article examines the attempts to promote sport among
Indonesian athletes during the 1950s. Drawing on archival and
secondary
sources
from
the
period
immediately
after
Independence, the article analyses the processes and practices
through
which
ethnic
Chinese
athletes
in
Indonesia
were
positioned
in
opposition
to
the
Indigenous
athletes
and
progressively marginalised from competitive sport on the national
and international stage. The article argues that some of the
attempts to counter these practices through affirmative action
policies
and
strategies
imposed
by
the
new
Indonesian
government led to forms of boundary-making or discrimination
that were enforced to better promote the achievements of
Indigenous athletes at a time when its ethnic Chinese citizens
were visibly dominant in some sporting arenas. The study of
ethnic discrimination by the Indonesian government of the time
provides a compelling example of the ways in which dominant
and historical discourses of nationalism may be contested by
challenges to the legitimacy of athletic identities.
KEYWORDS
affirmative action; Chinese;
Indonesia; nation building;
nationalism; sport
Introduction
The idea of ‘the nation’ is among the most important constructions of collective identity.
As a focus for the articulation of particular sentiments and loyalties, it is a powerful means
of mustering large groups of people for certain social and political ends (Palmer 2001). Far
from neutral, nations and nationalisms are, as Desai (2009) notes, ‘political ideologies, but
of a special sort: they define and determine the nature and limits of the modern commu-
nities that are nation-states’. While the ‘cultural politics of these nationalisms certainly fea-
tured some more or less uncritical celebration of the “national culture”’ (Barker 2008),
most nations are ‘cross-cut by and cut across ethnic boundaries, making the task of
“forging” the nation necessary’ (Desai 2009: 424). Even those that seek to be inclusive
not least by advancing the case of multiculturalism are founded upon certain core
beliefs, which are in turn rooted in ethnic or racial conceptions of the nation, as to
what citizenship entails (Barker 2008: 523).
The majority of Southeast Asian countries are, borrowing from J.S. Furnivall’s works in
the 1940s, plural societies. The nature of these plural societies means that maintaining
unity after the departure of the powerful colonial masters was a challenge for many.
For Indonesia, the concept of the nation ripened only in the last 50 years before its
© 2019 Editors, Indonesia and the Malay World
CONTACT Taufiq Tanasaldy
taufiq.tanasaldy@utas.edu.au
INDONESIA AND THE MALAY WORLD
2019, VOL. 47, NO. 137, 47–65
https://doi.org/10.1080/13639811.2019.1559564


independence in 1945. The first recognised nationalist organisation began in 1908 (Tarling
2004), however it took another two decades before young people from many regions of the
Dutch East Indies (now Indonesia) gathered in Jakarta to pledge their belonging to one
homeland, nation and language, that was Indonesia (Maier 2005: 523). This short
nation-founding journey was not enough to bond such a diverse country, as evidenced
by a series of devastating regional rebellions in the first decade after its Independence
(see Feith and Lev 1963). The Indonesian government undoubtedly understood the chal-
lenges of building unity, some of which are aptly summarised below:
maintaining the unity of what had been the Dutch East Indies [did not appear to] be easy.
This was not because of unbridgeable ‘primordial’ differences between the various groups
that inhabited the islands but because of recent political history. The anti-colonial struggle
had included many kinds of movements, and most had first mobilised on the basis of regional
or religious identity.
(Barker 2008: 523)
One of the major social divisions that continued to influence Indonesia’s social fabric post-
Independence involved its ethnic Chinese population. And, to understand this, their social
history and relations with the indigenous community (locally known as pribumi or, in
earlier times, as bumiputera) to be briefly introduced.1
The relations between the ethnic Chinese and the Indigene during the colonial times
were generally peaceful, but at times violence broke out, such as in Java in 1912, 1918
and 1931. Some of these were the result of economic competition between the two com-
munities (Wilmott 1961: 27). The indigenous community did not have a ‘genuine middle
class in a commercial sense’ at least to the early decades of the 20th century and this
differed greatly from the ethnic Chinese, particularly from the totok background who
were active in business (Twang 1979: 67–70).2 The better position of the Chinese, particu-
larly in the retail sector, was therefore given, and this continued after the Indonesia’s inde-
pendence. To bridge the economic gap between the two groups, the Indonesian
government implemented a few economic policies. In the ratified document in 1949
where the Dutch recognised Indonesia’s sovereignty, the Indonesian delegate inserted a
clause to protect the economically weak groups (Twang 1979: 72), which clearly refers
to the Indigenous. The implementation of such protection can be seen from the early
1950s, when the government introduced the Fortress Programme (Program Benteng),
Asaat Movements, and regulations to indigenise rice mills and harbour facilities. In
1959, the government introduced PP10 that banned the Chinese from retail businesses
in areas below the level of district capital (for full discussions on these economic measures
see Suryadinata 2005). These affirmative policies while providing many incentives to the
Indigene, brought hardship to the Chinese.
Another crucial problem with serious ramifications pertains to the citizenship status of
the Chinese. Their legal status in the archipelago was a complex issue to the extent that ‘six
1The literature on the Indonesian Chinese is rich. Those written in Indonesian were particularly abundant after the collapse
of the New Order regime. This section only gives an overview on aspects that are relevant and discussed in this article.
Those interested in the wider social and political journey of the Chinese in this country can refer to more general works
such as Willmott (1961), Coppel (1983), Setiono (2003) and Suryadinata (2005).
2Totok are those who were freshly arrived in the archipelago and still very much oriented to China. Totok is contrasted with
the peranakan who were born in Indonesia and had absorbed significant local cultural practices (for further elaboration
on both communities see Suryadinata (2005: 78–87).
48
T. TANASALDY AND C. PALMER


citizenship laws and four international treaties failed to settle the matters’ (Wilmott 1961:
16). During the Dutch colonial era, the main source of contention of all stakeholders was
whether they were citizens of China or the Netherlands, and whether this status was appli-
cable just for those who were born in the Dutch East Indies, or those who were born over-
seas, or both. Such ambiguities persisted after Indonesia gained independence as China
continued to adhere to its jus sanguinis approach – extending citizenship to those born
from Chinese parents regardless of the place of birth. At the same time, Indonesian citi-
zenship laws also provided citizenship status, with a few variations over time, to the ethnic
Chinese population. This has further ramifications because citizenship status determines
certain rights and privileges, such as those affecting business ownerships, education and
other forms of social participation, including sporting events, as will be explained later.
In short, because of this ambiguity, the Chinese in Indonesia, both aliens and citizens
alike, were subjected to extra and/or unnecessary scrutiny. Both governments eventually
agreed to end the ambiguity by signing a treaty in 1958 which gave ethnic Chinese the
option to choose their citizenship.3
Linked to the citizenship issue was the question of political loyalties. Chinese allegiance
had been divided mostly between those pro-Dutch and those pro-China in the early 20th
century. It was only from the late 1920s, or, at least, the early 1930s that a small section of
the community started to voice their allegiance and support for the future Indonesia.
During the independence war (1945–1949), the Chinese were accused of supporting the
Dutch, although a not insignificant number sympathised with and chose to fight alongside
the Indonesians,4 while many others were simply allying with those who could offer better
protection and more stability. These questions of loyalties coupled with past economic
grievances resulted in many anti-Chinese incidents during the independence war.5
Another issue is the cultural identity of the ethnic Chinese that had been retained in
extensive social organisations and schools, and which had been allowed to continue
until after the departure of the Dutch. By the mid 1960s, to facilitate integration of the
Chinese into the larger Indonesian community and to remove exclusivity, the Indonesian
government introduced new regulations. In education, from the 1950s, the government
imposed changes in the curriculum and the selection of teachers. Chinese schools were
only allowed at larger towns for students with foreign citizenship status. Schools predomi-
nantly attended Indonesian Chinese or those owned by the pro-China Nationalists were
converted into public schools.6 Chinese newspapers were banned (1960–1963), before
3See detailed discussions on citizenships of the ethnic Chinese in Wilmott (1961), Coppel (2002) and Suryadinata (2005).
The terms ‘ethnic Chinese’ or ‘Chinese descent’ are used in this article to refer to the Chinese who were living in Indo-
nesia. Reflecting the complexity of their citizenship status(es) as explained above, and depending on the period when
these terms were used, the Chinese could be Dutch nationals/subjects, Chinese nationals, Indonesian nationals, or
holding multiple nationalities. From the mid 1950s, those terms refer to the Chinese in Indonesia who were at least
holding Indonesian citizenship. On a few occasions the term ‘Indonesian Chinese’ is used as a contrast to the ethnic
Chinese (i.e. those who did not hold Indonesian citizenship).
4Siauw (2010) gives a few names of ethnic Chinese who fought alongside the Indonesians against the Dutch.
5See Setiono (2003: chapter 31). There are many episodes of anti-Chinese riots in the archipelago. In the mid 18th century
about 10,000 Batavian Chinese were murdered by the Dutch (Setiono 2003: chapter 8). In the first decade of the 20th
century, significant conflicts against the ethnic Chinese and their interests erupted in Kudus and some other towns in
Java. Post-Independence Indonesia also saw anti-Chinese sentiments. There was a serious conflict in 1963 in
Bandung, and following the 1965 coup anti-Chinese riots erupted in many parts of Indonesia. When Suharto resigned
in May 1998, massive anti-Chinese riots broke out in several cities in Indonesia.
6Suryadinata (2005: 135-140) discusses the condition of Chinese education in Indonesia during this period. Within the pro-
China faction of ethnic Chinese in Indonesia in the 1950s, there were those who supported the Communist People’s
Republic of China (PRC) and those who were for the Nationalist Republic of China (ROC). ROC and those supportive
INDONESIA AND THE MALAY WORLD
49


being allowed to publish again after requirements that the editorial board be comprised of
Indonesian nationals and that their reporting be Indonesia-oriented. Despite the efforts of
the government and the Chinese community, they continued to be regarded as aliens by a
large sector of the Indigenes.7
The uncertainties and tensions in turn provided the backdrop for particular practices of
nation building that could then be articulated through sporting activities and events.
Through both discrimination and affirmative action strategies and policies, certain
forms of boundary-making or tacit discrimination were enforced to better promote the
achievements of the Indigenous Indonesian athletes at a time when the ethnic Chinese
were dominant in sport. It is also argued that the political situation in the 1950s and
the government’s efforts to blur the ethnic line in sport, provided the athletes of
Chinese descent with no other option but to assimilate into the national sporting
agenda, and gradually lose their prominence in ‘exclusive’ sports.
To elaborate this argument, the article first introduces some of the key debates in sport,
nationalism and nation building, in South and Southeast Asia and in Indonesia more specifi-
cally. It then examines the Indonesian government’s attempts in the 1950s to promote sport
among Indigenous athletes and discusses the challenges faced by ethnic Chinese athletes.
Sources are drawn from interviews conducted in 2015 with ethnic Chinese athletes from
the 1950s and 1960s, as well as newspaper archives and sporting literature. With the excep-
tions of sources who have expressly wanted to be named such as Tan Joe Hok, Tan Liong
Houw, and Oei Sik Tjong, the others remain anonymous. Sources were well known athletes
or coaches in football, badminton, swimming, diving, and water polo in the 1950s and 1960s.
The authors also interviewed a few younger athletes. Most of the interviewees still live in
Indonesia, while a few have relocated to countries such as the United States and Canada.
Sport, nationalism, and nation building
The relationship between sport and the development of national identity is by no means a
new field of study (Cronin and Mayall 1998; Hargreaves 2000; Bairner 2008, 2009, 2015).
In most contemporary cultures, the ideas, images and ideologies of national identity are
very often carried through sporting events and ceremonies (Porter and Smith 2005; Silk
et al. 2005). As Whitson and Macintosh (1993: 1) point out, sport is one of a number
of cultural practices that have an important place in ‘representing nations to the outside
world’ and in ‘mobilising national sentiments’ among citizens within particular nations.
As Allison (2000) argues, ‘whether we are talking about nationalism or patriotism or
the development and expression of national identity … it is clear that a national dimension
is an important part of sport’. For Miller et al. (2001: 31), ‘the sporting body bears trium-
phant national mythologies in a double way, extending the body to encompass the nation
and compressing it to obscure the social divisions that threaten national unity’.
While the coupling of sport and nationalism is seen in many contemporary sporting
events, it is important to acknowledge the importance of historical context in nation build-
ing. As Bairner (2015: 375) argues:
of ROC were accused of abetting the regional rebellions in Indonesia, and as a result, enterprises, associations, newspa-
pers and schools with ties with the ROC were outlawed or nationalised (Thee 2006: 86).
7See the relevant discussions in Suryadinata (2005: 9–41).
50
T. TANASALDY AND C. PALMER


… the most powerful form of national performance today may be seen in sport, understand-
ing tensions between not only the national and global, but also between the nation-state and
the historic nation and between nationality and national identity remain key challenges.
(italics in original)
Mills (2001) notes the importance of historical, largely colonial events, in shaping the nar-
rative of national identity in South Asia. While Mills’ focus is on India, his broad charac-
terisation of the importance of historical events in forging contemporary understandings
certainly holds elsewhere in the region. Firstly, the influences of the colonial powers and
sports in their colonies are well established. British imperialism, for example, imported its
‘national sport’, cricket, to its colonies, and it has remained popular throughout the Com-
monwealth. Taiwan and South Korea play baseball that shares a similar style to their colo-
nial master, Japan (Cho 2012: 535; Harney 2013: 23). Similarly, the Dutch influenced the
sports played in the Dutch East Indies, presently Indonesia. Brown (2008: 438) noted that
korfball and kasti which were popular in the Dutch East Indies, were also popular in the
Netherlands, but not in other parts of the world. He further noted that all of the sports in
the biannual national games in the early 1950s were introduced to the region during the
Dutch colonial era (Brown 2008: 438–439). Secondly, sports could play a role in the
growing nationalism and help shape national identity vis-à-vis the colonial masters, par-
ticularly in the racialised environment where sports and sport-clubs were divided along
ethnic lines.
Indonesia, unsurprisingly, also experienced a troubled history in terms of colonial
lineages in the development of sport, the construction of national identity, and the
relationship between the two. Societies and social activities, including those of sports in
the Dutch East Indies were commonly although not always strictly, divided along
ethnic lines: the European, ‘Foreign Oriental’ (who were mostly Chinese), and Indigen-
ous.8 The ethnic Chinese, for example, had their own ‘national’ or at least ‘all-Java’
leagues and regular competitions for football, badminton, tennis, weight-lifting, swim-
ming, and some other sports. Membership of those organisations generally was also exclu-
sive to the ethnic Chinese. Similar assertions can be extended to the Dutch/European and
to the Indigenous organisations. One clear example in sports is the separate football
leagues organised by the Dutch/European, Chinese, and the Indigenous.9
This ethnic arrangement further cemented group identity. Some Indigenes formed
‘national’ sporting clubs that had supported nationalist movements in the colony
(Brown 2006: 76; Colombijn 2000: 183). Similarly, the Chinese via sporting events were
eager to show the awakening of the Chinese nation, whereas the Dutch/European
might use the sporting events to show their ‘colonial’ superiority. Such a system not
only created a sense of distinctiveness among those ethnic groups, thus separating
them, but most damagingly, placing them in competition with each other. This ethnic
8The Dutch/Europeans in the East Indies had their own schools, as did the Chinese, and the Indigenous. Similarly, social and
leisure clubs were commonly based on ethnic lines, and in some matters such as civil registration and business, subjected
to different systems. For legal matters related to business, for example, ethnic Chinese were to follow the European laws;
but they were to follow laws applicable to the Indigenous for some other legal cases. Coppel (2002) and Lindsey (2005)
discuss this racial classification, including the fluidity of the arrangements.
9The names of the leagues have evolved, but before World War II, the Dutch/European league was Nederlandsch-Indische
Voetbal Unie (NIVU), the Chinese one was Hwa Nan Voetbal Bond (HNVB), while the Indigenous one was Persatoean
Sepak Raga Seloeroeh Indonesia (PSSI). On some instances of the interplay among these leagues, see Colombijn
(2000) and Aji (2010).
INDONESIA AND THE MALAY WORLD
51


division continued to plague Indonesia and the country’s sport after Independence. In
sport, with the departure of the Dutch, the problem was the domination of Chinese vis-
à-vis the Indigenous group. Breaking down the ethnic divides in order to create a
strong national unity remained a challenge.
While the literature on sport and nationalism is wide ranging, in an early piece, Beacom
(1998) noted that critical investigations of the relationship of sport to national identity
usually fall into one of three camps: (i) the development of characteristics perceived as
exclusive to the community or nation, (ii) the elevation of national status in the inter-
national arena contributed to by success in sport – either by individuals or groups and
(iii) sports considered Indigenous or native to a community or region. Echoing Mills
(2001) and Bromber et al. (2013), the example of discrimination and nation building
through sport in Indonesia in the 1950s brings together domains (ii) and (iii) whereby
sport becomes a site through which the past can be invoked to serve the selective interests
of the political present (Andrews 2006).
Following this, typologies of nationalism are common. As Desai (2009: 401) notes,
‘nationalisms tend to be classified, if at all, in trans-historical “ideal-typical” distinctions,
made by Hroch for example, between early and formative phases of nationalisms and later
phases’. Other debates about nationalism have drawn a distinction between different kinds
of nationalism, notably the emergence of ethnic nationalism as distinct from civic nation-
alism. As Shulman (2002: 554) notes, ‘the distinction between civic and ethnic nationalism
is one of the most widely employed conceptual building blocks in the study of ethnic
relations and nationalism’. Thus, ‘a simple classificatory scheme has arisen that dis-
tinguishes nations as civic, political, or territorial on one hand, versus ethnic or cultural
on the other’ (Shulman 2002: 555).
The Southeast Asian context is significant for the study of sports cultures, given the
importance of the region to expanding sports consumer markets, the sports labour
force and the large sector of the global poor living in the South Asian region (Biyanwila
2018: 9). As Brown (2006: 72) notes, ‘in South Asian sports studies, the field is crowded
with discussions of games developed by and dominated by the British. Cricket and
soccer, of course, have attracted the most attention’. Of concern for this article, sports pol-
icies that were produced in response to some of the practices which emerged from nation
building in Southeast Asia have not been fully explored in the literature. Worth noting for
the case of Singapore is the writing of Horton (2002) that discusses, among others, the
efforts of the Singaporean government to use sports to reduce sectional communalism
that was quite divisive. Like the case of Dutch East Indies, the sport clubs in colonial Sin-
gapore were formed along ethnic lines. Similarly, Chan (2016) looks at ways the ruling
party in Singapore used sports as an agent of social engineering. In the case of Indonesia,
Adams (2002) studies the relations between the sports, the state ideology (Pancasila), and
nation building process. Colombijn (2002) focuses on the historical and political aspects of
football. There he explores the interplay between nationalism and sport in the Dutch East
Indies. Brown (2006) studies how badminton evolved, the domination of the Chinese in
the sport, and how it influenced some political processes. Brown (2008) investigates
national games in the 1950s and their an important role in the nation building process
in Indonesia. Tanasaldy (2017), examines the roots of prominent Indonesian Chinese
in sport in the 1950s and 1960s. As for the focus on the Indonesian Chinese, while the
number of publications is rich and diverse, those that focus on their role in sport in the
52
T. TANASALDY AND C. PALMER


past are scarce. This study will add to the growing literature. It aims to help better under-
stand the links between the role of Indonesian Chinese in sports, their experiences and
policies of the Indonesian government in the framework of nation building.
Sport, nationalism and Indonesia
We turn now to those policies in sport that directly affected the ethnic Chinese and how
they reacted in the context of nation building post-Independence. While nation building is
a process consciously pursued in many newly independent countries, this was even more
crucial for Indonesia. As an exemplary plural society that was extremely diverse, socio-cul-
turally, ethnically and religiously, this effort involved finding a solution to its ‘Chinese
problem, namely a lifestyle that was quite separate from the rest of the community, the
significant role of the Chinese in many aspects of post-Independent Indonesia, and the
perception of their questionable loyalties to the nation.
Along with other newly independent countries, sport in Indonesia had the capacity to
contribute to the nation-building process, as it could enhance social integration by bring-
ing together people (athletes and spectators alike) of different socio-cultural backgrounds
(Adams 2002). The first president, Sukarno, started overt efforts to use sport to unify the
Indonesian people (see for example, Brown 2008: 434). In 1948, when the country was still
in turmoil over domestic rebellion (the Communist rebellion in Java in September of that
year) and during the revolutionary wars (1945–1949) against the Dutch colonials who
wished to reoccupy the archipelago, the country commenced its first national sport
games, a biennial tradition that continues to this day. Referring to the National Sport
Games (Pekan Olahraga Nasional, popularly known as PON) in the early 1950s, Brown
(2008: 445) observes that the journeys of the young athletes from various parts of Indo-
nesia and their experiences in these games could have had the effect of creating the ‘ima-
gined community’, similar to the integrative outcome of education.
A few years after securing the first international sport title in badminton in 1959 that
had raised the prestige of the country,10 Sukarno built a large sport complex in Jakarta to
host the fourth Asian Games in 1962 and then in the following year, the first GANEFO
(Games of the New Emerging Forces) were held. The Games were successfully launched
and further propelled Indonesia to the fore of international attention.11 The hosting of and
achievements in these international sporting events, however, were not only important to
Indonesia’s international status, it was also ostensibly meant to unify its people through
cultural imaginings of one-ness; a shared trope in the imagined community. Using
sport in this respect, however, was not without contention. One important issue was
the role of its ethnic Chinese citizens in sports.
Tanasaldy (2017) discusses the influence of the Chinese in sports during the colonial
period as well as their domination in particular sports during the early years after Indo-
nesia’s independence. However, unlike many affirmative economic policies mentioned
10In 1959, Tan Joe Hok won the men’s singles of All England, a prestigious badminton event breaking the domination of the
Malaysian and European players. Indonesian badminton athletes, a significant number of whom were Chinese, remained
prominent.
11Launching GANEFO was part of Sukarno’s grand scheme to be the leader of the developing countries. When he was
deposed in 1966, the Games faltered. The case of GANEFO in international bipolar politics is academically fascinating,
and many have written about it, for example, Connolly (2012), Field (2014), Lutan and Hong (2005), Paulker (1965),
and Shuman (2013).
INDONESIA AND THE MALAY WORLD
53


earlier, none of the national sport policies can be seen as overtly discriminatory towards
the Chinese population in Indonesia. The role and attitude of President Sukarno, the
country’s president, is essential here. Sukarno appeared supportive of their active role
in sport. He continued to host receptions for the national badminton and football
teams, many of whose members were ethnic Chinese, as well as awarding medals to
them. Sukarno was also against Indonesian Chinese changing their names to Indonesian
ones, which could explain why the earlier push for ethnic Chinese athletes to change
names, as will be touched upon later, was unsuccessful. Such welcoming attitudes were
partly due to his endeavour to build the nation by being inclusive, and this definitely
filtered down to policies in sports.12
While the Indonesian government was supportive of the role of the ethnic Chinese in
sport, their performance in some cases overshadowed the Indigene. The government
also, in many cases, allowed exclusive, ethnic-based sports clubs to operate (Tanasaldy
2017). Within the nation building efforts to construct inclusive pan-Indonesianness, it
is no surprise that the Indonesian government wanted to blur the exclusivity and
manage the growing dominance of ethnic Chinese athletes so that Indigenous counter-
parts would be given equal opportunities to succeed. As will be discussed shortly, the
implementation of policies at the regional level were also inconsistent with national pol-
icies, as the regions were still developing and dealing with their own problems.
The domination of ethnic Chinese athletes – while not a critical issue for the govern-
ment of the day – must nevertheless have concerned a section of nationalist officials. It is
difficult to imagine that government officials would be completely at ease with the fre-
quent appearance of ‘foreign’ names in sporting competitions or as champions in
some sports. In a rare comment captured by the official publication of Indonesia’s
1954 Olympic Committee, an official believed that Indonesia’s sport would not progress
if potential athletes were only from the highest social class (Bulletin Komite Olympiade
Indonesia 1954: 8). While the source did not elaborate, the inference to class domination
was undoubtedly aimed at the ethnic Chinese. Looking at the perspective of the time, the
class reference harked back to the Dutch colonial system when the Chinese were regarded
as one class higher than the Indigene. A further example concerns a blunder made by a
representative of the regional Perbasi (Persatuan Basketball Seluruh Indonesia, the official
basketball organisation) – concerning the participants of the 1960 national basketball
competition. The military officer in question – a functionary of Bandung’s Perbasi – men-
tioned that participants of the competition would be limited to Indigenous athletes (Pant-
jawarta,1960e: 1). Although the statement was soon rescinded by a national official of
Perbasi as reported in Pantjawarta (1960f: 1), it nevertheless gave an indication of the
discriminatory mindset of some officials concerning the role of the ethnic Chinese in
competitive sport.
12Such an outlook could be a consequence of Indonesia’s foreign policies. By the early 1960s, Indonesia was aligned closely
to the People’s Republics of China (Lev 1966: 103). Sukarno could not possibly antagonise China, his closest and strongest
supporter in his quest to gain international prominence, by persecuting the Chinese within Indonesia. In sports, the
Chinese government had strongly supported Indonesia’s GANEFO, including providing the finance (Shuman 2013:
270, Field 2014: 1856). On another front, Sukarno and his strongest domestic political allies, the Communists, had
been condemning the discrimination of the African-Americans in the USA. Treating Indonesian Chinese citizens badly
would only undermine his efforts.
54
T. TANASALDY AND C. PALMER


Affirmative action in Indonesian sport?
While disability and gender inequality in sport have long been the focus of affirmative
action programmes such as Title IX13 or quota systems for admission into college sport
in the United States, such programmes have also extended to opportunities for those mar-
ginalised through race, ethnicity or their Indigenous history and culture. As we discuss
here, the affirmative action initiatives that were put in place following Indonesia’s inde-
pendence from Dutch rule provides a historical example of this. Indeed, for redress to
occur, it was necessary for the state to strengthen the position of the Indigene through
affirmative action initiatives. In sport, this came to mean the ‘taming’ of athletes of
Chinese descent.
In the Indonesian context, affirmative actions were covert. The following shows that
they could be masked by disciplinary actions. A report by Pantjawarta (1960b: 1) dis-
cussed the effects of the disciplinary actions by the PRSI (Perserikatan Renang Seluruh
Indonesia, the official swimming organisation), against a prominent Chinese swimming
club, Kumala Hidup. Established as Kuang Hua (光华) after Indonesia’s independence,
it was one of the top swimming clubs in the nation, and could be considered as the
best Chinese swimming club at the time. Kumala Hidup for some time still managed
internal competitions among its members (for example, see the report in Pantjawarta
1960d: 2). Without the ability to compete with the swimmers from other clubs,
however, its days as a club were numbered.
It was noted that the PRSI suspended the Kumala Hidup club because some club
members had refused to take up an invitation by PRSI to compete in certain events.
Such a boycott, according to the Pantjawarta report, was instigated by the PRSI rules
aimed at curtailing the participation of the club’s swimmers. The report exposed a possible
link between the suspension and the fact that the majority of PRSI officials were from Tirta
Kentjana, the Indigenous swimming club, which was also the main rival of Kumala Hidup.
Even after the damning report, not only did PRSI stand by its decision, it even advised
Kumala Hidup to disband. By then, PRSI had banned the club from competing with
the other members of PRSI (Pantjawarta, 1960c: 2), thus dealing a death knell for the
club. The club was eventually disbanded and by 1962 Kumala Hidup no longer appeared
in swimming competitions, signifying the end of Chinese exclusive swimming clubs, at
least in Jakarta. As reported in Wartabhakti 1962a: 2), appearing instead were two new
Jakarta swimming clubs: Lumba-Lumba and Kusuma Harapan. It appears that Kusuma
Harapan was a ‘reincarnation’ of Kumala Hidup, but by this time, significant numbers
of former Kumala Hidup swimmers had already joined Lumba-Lumba – a new club
created to meld ethnic Chinese and Indigenous swimmers.
Besides such disciplinary tactics, affirmative action could be achieved through the selec-
tion process of athletes. Informants who experienced this claimed sport coaches could be
discriminatory in their actions. One account dealt with the selection of athletes destined to
attend the 1952 Olympics in Helsinki, where three athletes were dispatched: Soeharko
(swimming), Thio Ging Hwie (weightlifting), and Soedarmodjo (athletics). According
to one informant, instead of Soeharko, the original agreement was to send another
13Title IX is a US law passed in 1972 that requires gender equity for boys and girls in every educational programme that
receives federal funding. Athletics is one of 10 key areas addressed by the law.
INDONESIA AND THE MALAY WORLD
55


swimmer, Tio Tjoe Hong. The same informant continued that the agreement was not hon-
oured and the selection process was repeated by a ‘roll of the dice’ in which Soeharto was
selected. The informant – close to Tio – mentioned that if Tio Tjoe Hong had been sent,
there would have been more Chinese than Indigenous swimmers in the Indonesian team,
making it less Indonesian. The source believed that this consideration led to the final
decision not to select Tio. Both Tio and Soeharto were swimming champions, in the free-
style and breaststroke categories respectively.
A further account emanated from a national swimming champion close to Carla Oen,
one of the top female swimmers in the first half of the1950s. The source stated that her
club, Bandung’s Tirta Merta, had not given Oen adequate training and competition oppor-
tunities. Tirta Merta, which was considered an Indigenous club, reasoned that she was
already a champion and she needed to allow less accomplished swimmers more opportu-
nities. Oen’s father – a well known sport educator – decided to form the Aquarius Club,
which Carla Oen joined shortly after its formation in 1954. The Aquarius Club, which
became prominent in water sports, especially water polo, from the mid 1950s to the
1960s, was predominantly ethnic Chinese. Another swimming record holder during
1950s and early 1960s was told by a colleague that the Indigenous coach intentionally
formed two separate groups of female swimmers, dividing the ethnic Chinese and the
Indigenous, with the view that if the Indigenous team won, the Chinese team would
not be sent for further, advanced competition.14
Similarly, a badminton champion of the early 1960s claimed he had experienced dis-
crimination from his coach. The coach’s decision to send a lower-ranked Indigenous
player angered Ferry Sonnevile, the manager of the badminton team. Sonnevile, a
respected badminton player himself and already based in Europe was expecting the
ethnic Chinese player to compete. Queried by Sonnevile, the coach changed that the
player was sick – a claim refuted by the player. A final example of perceived discrimination
involved Oei Sik Tjong, a well known football player who later became a national coach.
The player felt that the Indigenous coach had on several occasions excluded him from
joining the national team. In contrast, when the coach was an expatriate (for example,
the Czechoslovakian Tony Pogacnik) or an ethnic Chinese coach (i.e. Liem Soen Joe
who was also known as Endang Witarsa), his place on the national team was assured.
Despite these primary sources of information, it is difficult for the authors to discern the
extent to which the ethnic Chinese athletes were disadvantaged. There were practical
reasons as to why ambiguities may cloud the issue. The official sports organisations of
the 1950s were in their formation phase, and policies were mostly implemented ad hoc
by the individual organisations. The uncertainties were even more prevalent in the
regions, where numbers of qualified athletes and facilities were small. As no uniform
policy existed, grey areas – such as the athletes’ responsibilities and nationality – often
became polemical. One issue was with those who had foreign or dual citizenship:
whether they would be allowed membership in national sports associations, compete in
any competitions, or represent Indonesia at international games. This was particularly
14The assemblage of Chinese and non-Chinese swimmers in group events was evident in at least one instance in 1962.
Lumba-Lumba – one of the strongest clubs in Jakarta – divided its female teams into two. Team One was all Indigenous
(Iris Tobing, Sri Hardani, Tri Damajati, Erni Nuraeni) while the Team Two was all Chinese (Oey Lian Nio, Ong Liang Ing, Lie
Lan Hoa, Lie Jing Hoa). On that occasion, as reported in Wartabhakti (1962b: 2), the Indigenous team beat the Chinese
team.
56
T. TANASALDY AND C. PALMER


relevant to many ethnic Chinese athletes due to the changing citizenship requirements,
and at once became contentious in the Indonesian sport milieu. For example, the selec-
tion of athletes at the national level was usually based on their performance at a regional
level. They were quite prominent in some sports in these regional competitions, particu-
larly those in Java. Since the results of these regional competitions influenced decisions
made at the national level, the chance of ethnic Chinese athletes being recruited was
high, particularly where qualified Indigenous athletes were scarce. This was especially
true in sports where individual achievements were timed and records were publicly
available.
Furthermore, at this time the ethnic Chinese were still active in the leadership of official
sports organisations. In the early 1950s, at least three of the chairpersons of the official
sports organisations at the national level were Chinese.15 Under these circumstances, it
was expected that official policies directly harming the Chinese’s role in sport would
not be passed without scrutiny. Lastly, in some circumstances, such affirmative actions
were ineffective, for example, when sports such as weightlifting were completely domi-
nated by the Chinese, or when there were no Indigenous participants, such as in swim-
ming in some regions. One swimming coach in Bandung in the early 1950s shared that
he did not see discrimination in the swimming selection then but added that it was
difficult to find potential young Indigenous swimmers during those times. This lack of
Indigenous leaderships at the regional level in some sports could be partly due to lack
of interests and personnel.
Targeting the Chinese clubs
As noted previously sport has the capacity to contribute to the nation building process.
However, if organised in such a way as to evoke ethnic chauvinism, sport could also aggra-
vate national divisiveness. The Indonesian government realised that if building national
unity through sport were to be successful, the inherited social structures that kept
society apart ethnically would need to be dismantled. The Dutch sports organisations
and structures, which dominated the sporting landscape during the colonial period, had
disappeared and were no longer an issue after 1949. The Chinese organisations, which
had thrived during the colonial time with a hiatus during the Japanese occupation, prolif-
erated after the war. That said, it is important to note that these Chinese sporting organ-
isations were not always unified in their social, cultural and political orientations. During
the Dutch colonial era, Chinese social organisations were divided into those oriented to
China, to the West/the Netherlands, and some to the Dutch East Indies. Their youth
organisations, which were directly involved in many of the sporting activities, also
reflected these divisions. Further differentiation in terms of cultural orientation existed
between totok and peranakan, but from the authors’ research, both communities co-
existed well in sports representing the Chinese, and memberships of the Chinese clubs
(especially the larger clubs) included both factions.
Despite this, from early 1950s, many clubs, while accepting non-ethnic Chinese ath-
letes, still overwhelmingly had Chinese memberships and continued to pursue exclusive
15The heads respectively were: Boen Seen Sze in weightlifting, Tan Tjoen Kee in table tennis and Ong Soen Bing in basket-
ball (Kenang-kenangan Pekan Olahraga Nasional Ke-II, 1951).
INDONESIA AND THE MALAY WORLD
57


activities.16 The government realised that this exclusivity needed to be addressed. Estab-
lishing national umbrella sporting bodies and ostracising clubs which refused to be part
of those bodies was one way to assert control. This strategy progressed smoothly in
some sports – in weightlifting for example, which the ethnic Chinese had dominated.
In this instance, the government decided to accept the Chinese-founded IAWLA (Indone-
sia Amateur Weight Lifter Association) as the official body. Such recognition might be one
reason why a smooth transition was possible. The IAWLA nomenclature continued to be
used until the early 1960s.
Inevitably, in some cases, the official strategies faced opposition, especially from those
organisations whose ethnic Chinese influence was firmly established, or those with large
non-citizen Chinese in their membership ranks. Opposition from the Chinese Basketball
Federation (Chung Hua Lan Chiu Tsung Hui - CHLCTH, 中华篮球总会) seemed to be
the strongest. The national basketball body, Perbasi, formed in 1951 had problems inte-
grating the Chinese Basketball Federation (Departemen Pendidikan Nasional 2003).
Despite the unquestionable influence of the CHLCTH within the Indonesian basketball
milieu, Tony Wen – a nationalist entrusted to head Perbasi – took firm action in refusing
to recognise competitions organised by the Chinese federation.17 In spite of the threat of
sanctions, some members of CHLCTH continued to organise its own league competition
in parallel to the official ones (see, for example, a report in De Locomotief, 1953a: 4).
Another reported case of opposition came from the badminton association of Jakarta
aligned with the ethnic Chinese, known as Perbad (Persatuan Badminton Djakarta,
Jakarta Badminton Union). It initially resisted integration because the new regional
official badminton body mandated Indonesian citizenship for its membership – an
obvious issue for the non-citizen (alien) members of Perbad (Brown 2006). Eventually, fol-
lowing a series of negotiations, Perbad agreed to merge in 1950. The newly reconfigured
organisation retained the name ‘Perbad’ – a sign of the original Perbad’s continuing
influence (Brown 2006).
While there were issues of various magnitude with other ethnic Chinese sports organ-
isations, either at a regional or national level, in due course, those under the control of
Indonesian Chinese (as opposed to non-citizen Chinese) merged or became members
of the official sporting bodies. These organisations realised that opposition was futile,
given their need to be recognised as part of the official sports structure. To be involved
in official competitions at the national level, or to represent Indonesia internationally,
necessitated such compromises. After obtaining such recognition, the clubs or organis-
ations would need to ensure that their competing athletes also held Indonesian citizenship.
Questioning citizenship and loyalty
The citizenship and loyalty of the ethnic Chinese in Indonesia had been an issue since the
country’s independence. Their visibility (greater numbers as well as greater concentrations
16In terms of accepting non-Chinese members, two forerunners in the Jakarta football scene, the Chunghua and UMS were
pro-active since 1950. The first Indonesian to join the UMS was Mohammad Djamiat Dalhar (Bola, 8 February 2016). In the
same year the Chung Hua (1951) club accepted several Indigenous players, two of whom were made officials of the club.
17Tony Wen, a nationalist associated with Sukarno’s PNI party, was himself an active athlete. He supported Indonesia in its
war against the Dutch. He was a member of parliament in the 1950s and subsequently held a post in a Sukarno ministry.
See Setyautama (2008: 23–24) and Suryadinata (2015: 369–370).
58
T. TANASALDY AND C. PALMER


of people) meant that they were more often in the spotlight, compared to other foreign
minorities, such as Indians and Arabs. While the Arab minorities had mostly been
accepted as part of the larger Indonesian community being Muslims, the Chinese in Indo-
nesia were perceived as ‘less Indonesian’ because of their distinctive culture and particular
residential areas (mostly in the urban and business districts), and having their own clubs
and institutions. This position was exacerbated by the fact that during the colonial period
only a few sided with the nascent Indonesia, and following the end of World War II, a
significant number of them oriented themselves towards China (Liu 2011). Many
claimed dual citizenships – which in nationalist eyes demonstrated an outright lack of
loyalty to the new Indonesian state.
In many newly independent countries which had experienced a significant influx of
migrants during the colonial era citizenship was an urgent issue that needed to be resolved
during the decolonialisation process.18 For Indonesia, this was also complicated since the
existing laws in this country (and China) contributed to the ambiguous citizenship sta-
tuses for significant numbers of ethnic Chinese. In the early 1950s, it was estimated
that of the 2.5 million Chinese in Indonesia, possibly one million held Indonesian citizen-
ship, and more than 800,000 had dual nationality (Mozingo 1961).
The citizenship requirements for taking part in official sporting competitions (such as
PON) or for representing Indonesia internationally had become a polemical issue from the
beginning of the 1950s, particularly prior to the third PON in 1953, three years after the
government of Indonesia regained full control of the archipelago from the Dutch. Official
directions disqualified some (if not many) ethnic Chinese. Kuo Kuang T’i Yu Hui (国光体
育会), a well known Chinese sports association in Semarang, announced that swimmers
not having Indonesian citizenship, or those who had taken part in events not officially
recognised, would be ineligible to compete in the National Sport Games (De Locomotief,
1953b: 2). One of the non-recognised events singled out by the official national body for
athletics, Persatuan Atletik Seluruh Indonesia (PASI), as reported in Nieuwsgier (1953a: 2),
was the Chinese Sportweek in Jakarta. The Nieuwsgier article (1953b: 3) mentioned that
four of Jakarta’s top swimmers were barred from participating in PON because they
had been involved in the pre-selection to represent China in the Overseas Chinese Olym-
pics. The assumption was that as Indonesian citizens they would not be participating in
another country’s national sport competition.
The loyalty of the ethnic Chinese athletes was also often questioned when they com-
peted internationally, particularly when against athletes from China. Two former athletes
who had both been subjected to this scrutiny felt disappointed. The badminton champion,
Tan Joe Hok, expressed his humiliation when later in life, despite his significant contri-
bution to the country, he was nevertheless asked to queue to obtain his citizenship
papers (Kabarinews, 2012). Tan Liong Houw, a well known footballer, recalled how the
Indonesian spectators shouted racial slurs against him (and other ethnic Chinese
players) when they made mistakes.
The lack of Indonesian-ness in the names of these athletes was another thorny issue.
For some zealous officials it could be embarrassing to see many foreign (i.e. Chinese)
names in Indonesian teams that had achieved international recognition such as at the
Thomas Cup or the GANEFO Games. For such officials, athletes were expected to use
18For a survey of Southeast Asian countries with a post-colonial citizenship issue refer to Suryadinata (2007).
INDONESIA AND THE MALAY WORLD
59


Indonesian-sounding names, as the ‘foreign’ Chinese name could never be truly represen-
tative of Indonesia. Their attempts to persuade the Indonesian Chinese athletes to change
their names have been reported in early 1960s. Whether they were influenced by official
pressures or that it was a personal choice, few made the switch. Examples of those who
changed their names include Tan Liong Houw who became Latief Haris Tanoto and
Phoa Sian Liong, a badminton champion, who became Januar Pribadi (Wartabhakti,
1962c: 1). However, this name changing campaign did not progress further as it was
not supported by President Sukarno.19
However, there was a sharp change after the failed Coup in 1965 that led to fall of
Sukarno.20 Following his demise, his supporters and those linked with Communist
party PKI, were purged. Indonesia’s international relations were realigned from leaning
to the East to supporting the West, and it suspended relations with its former closest
ally, the People’s Republic of China.21 This drastic political reversal affected the Indone-
sian Chinese significantly. There was no secret that Baperki (Badan Permusjawaratan
Kewarganegaraan Indonesia), the most significant Indonesian Chinese organisation at
that time, was a strong supporter of Sukarno and had close relations with China. It was
known to oppose the total assimilation of the ethnic Chinese, a policy fully endorsed by
the new regime after Sukarno. Baperki and its extensive associates including all Chinese
schools either disbanded or were outlawed. Chinese cultural performances were severely
restricted in public, and their cultural symbols were strictly regulated, including
banning of the Chinese script. Entrance to public universities were also limited. For the
next 30 years, the Indonesian Chinese were left with almost no political representation
and had the status of second-class citizens.22 The Indonesian Chinese became the
victims of heightened discrimination and stigmatisation.
In such a hostile environment, their formerly enthusiastic social participation, includ-
ing those in sports, declined rapidly. Without government support or that of strong advo-
cates such as Baperki, they had to accept the harsh imposition of the new regime. In the
case of the name changing, as an example, the majority of the remaining active Indonesian
Chinese athletes changed their names. In an interview, Tan Joe Hok, a legendary badmin-
ton player, recalls a military officer who summoned all Chinese badminton players prepar-
ing for the 1967 Thomas Cup to present them with Indonesian names. Overnight, these
sports figures who had hitherto been known by their Chinese names had new identities.
Kompas (2 March 1967) reported that ‘in order to fulfil the expectation of the community’
several of the players have changed their names: Wong Pek Shen to Darmadi, Tjoa Tjong
Boan to Agus Susanto, Tjia Kian Sien to Indratno, Rudy Nio to Rudy Hartono Kurniawan,
and Tjong Kin Nian to Mintarja.
19President Sukarno asserted that foreign names would not diminish one’s loyalty to the country, and that no names,
including those of the officials, were originally Indonesian (see Oei et al. 1995 and Setiono 2003: 738). At that time
name-changing was a serious issue for many Chinese. It even affected their decision on whether to choose Indonesian
citizenship (Pantjawarta, 1960a: 1).
20Much has been written about the abortive Coup, and one of the earlier accounts is that of Benedict Anderson and Ruth
McVey (1971). For information on links with the Indonesian Chinese, see Coppel (1983: chapter 3).
21On events leading to the suspension of the diplomatic relations see Coppel (1983: 137–142), Suryadinata (2005: 161–166.)
Diplomatic relations with the People’s Republic of China was only restored more two decades later, in 1990.
22Unlike the Sukarno era, Indonesian Chinese were hardly represented in the national parliaments. During the more than
30-year period of the New Order, only two ethnic Chinese members were appointed in each legislative house, the DPR
and MPR, respectively. There were no Chinese ministers during those times, a contrast to the previous era when there
were ethnic Chinese ministers (Setiono 2003; Winarta 2008).
60
T. TANASALDY AND C. PALMER


The after effects
The combination of post-Independence opportunities as well as supportive government
policies resulted in an increased role for Indigenous sportsmen and women – even in
those sports in which they had been minimally represented in the past. In swimming,
for example, native swimmers began competing in the early 1950s. Thus, by the early
1960s the Chinese – while still an important cohort in this sport – were no longer domi-
nant. The numbers and influence of ethnic Chinese athletes were also in decline. On the
one hand, policies, which were not seen favourable by the Chinese, affected the degree of
enthusiasm that the Chinese had for their sports. On the other, many potential ethnic
Chinese athletes had decided to return to China. Some of them became China’s national
champions and later visited Indonesia to compete against their former friends and col-
leagues. In badminton, these included Wang Wenjiao, Tang Xianhu, Hou Jiachang,
Chen Yuniang, and Liang Qiuxia.23
It is difficult to deny that the majority of the Chinese – those active in politics excepted
– would look first to their future. Pride in their fame on the sporting field would not guar-
antee their survival and prosperity. Thus, when the New Order took charge of the nation
and imposed harsher conditions on the Chinese, many decided to withdraw from sport.
Athletes or potential athletes, with the exception of those in badminton, switched interests.
Like the path taken by their political and social institutions, most Chinese sporting organ-
isations changed their names to shed ties with the past or disbanded entirely. Conse-
quently, their rate of participation in sport and their ancillary domination in some
fields of sport declined rapidly. However, this change in fortune and its effects on their
participation in sports is a subject for further research.
Conclusion
A central objective of Indonesian nationalism in the 1950s concerned ‘the Chinese
problem’ – a population distinct from the rest of the community whose loyalties to the
nation were often questioned. Sport was used as a tool in both integration and opposition
whereby ethnic Chinese athletes in Indonesia were positioned as distinct from the native
Indonesian athletes and progressively marginalised from competitive sport on a national
and international stage.
Important to this was that Indonesia as a nation was a relatively a new concept, con-
structed in the first half of 20th century when the archipelago was a Dutch colony.
Soon after Indonesia’s independence in 1945, its leaders embarked on series of nation
building efforts to strengthen the cohesion of this diverse new nation. As has been
addressed here, sport was a key tool in this, yet it was not always embraced evenly.
With ethnic nationalism gaining momentum, the Indonesian government sought to
manage the growing dominance of ethnic Chinese on the regional/national and inter-
national sporting stage.
The example of discrimination and nation building through sport in Indonesia in the
1950s highlights in particular the tension in debates about sport and nation building.
23See Shen Shengyi’s blog韩建锋, "跑过四十年—陈玉娘口述历史[Han Jianfeng, ‘Passing forty years – Chen Yuniang’s
oral history’, 25 February 2009. <http://home.ttymq.com/space-2511-do-blog-id-7369.html>
INDONESIA AND THE MALAY WORLD
61


Sport can provide a site through which the elevation of national status in the inter-
national arena can contribute to success – either by individuals or groups, and sports
considered Indigenous or native to a community or region. Indeed, the discussion
above has shed light on how the government of the day, through policies and the
approaches of the officials and coaches, and through promoting certain athletes and
sports over others, tried to promote the achievements of the Indigenous athletes while
at the same time managing the ethnic Chinese athletes. The government tried to form
a ‘Team Indonesia’ or at least endeavoured to create a sense of pan-Indonesianess in
sport.
Such approaches combined with better opportunities had seen a rise of Indigenous ath-
letes including in the areas where they had no influence in the past. The lack of support
and the perceived discriminatory policies saw the gradual decline of the influence of the
ethnic Chinese athletes from the mid 1950s onwards, and ended definitively after the
New Order came to power in 1966. This was balanced by a range of affirmative action pol-
icies and strategies that were introduced by the new Indonesian government and officials
which contributed to the nation building agenda of the time. As discussed here, we can
learn much from the ways in which dominant and historical discourses of nationalism
may be contested by challenges to the legitimacy of athletic identity through the mobilis-
ation of both affirmative action and discrimination in sport.
Acknowledgements
This work was supported by PT Inti Cakra Anugrah (Jakarta).
Notes on contributors
Taufiq Tanasaldy, fluent in Bahasa Indonesia and Mandarin, is Senior Lecturer in Indonesian
Studies and the Head of Global Cultures and Languages, School of Humanities, University of Tas-
mania. He is interested in ethnicity, conflict and the Chinese diaspora. He is currently researching
the role of Indonesian Chinese in sport and working on the Sinpo (precursor of Wartabhakti)
archive. His work has appeared in Asian Ethnicity and Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volken-
kunde. Email: taufiq.tanasaldy@utas.edu.au
Catherine Palmer is a social anthropologist and Head of the School of Social Sciences, University of
Tasmania. She is internationally recognised for her interdisciplinary research examining cutting-
edge questions about pressing social problems, using sport as the prism. Her publications have
appeared in journals such as the International Journal for the Sociology of Sport, Sport in Society,
Journal of Gender Studies, Social & Cultural Geography, Sociology of Sport. Email: catherine.
palmer@utas.edu.au
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